


Dark Lord: Black Dawn

by KaedeRavensdale



Series: Dark Lord [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Timelines, F/M, Power Couple, i guess this counts as a 'time travel fix it' in a way, infinite dragonflight - Freeform, somewhat gratuitous creative liscence, we're just gonna have fun with this and see where it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-01-29 22:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: 'His people were gone. And so was she. His last and greatest failure.'Motivated by regrets, Nathanos travels to an alternate version of Azeroth on the eve of the Scouring of Eastweald.
Relationships: Nathanos Blightcaller/Sylvanas Windrunner
Series: Dark Lord [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898671
Comments: 164
Kudos: 119
Collections: (A high regard for Nathanos)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea just sort of came to me and I went with it. I'm going to go ahead and put chapter one up for everyone to play around with; let me know what you think of it. There will be periodic updates, as per with my other fics, once i have the rest of this story broken down into a chapter by chapter outline i can properly build off of.

_‘Safe journeys, my love.’_ What had motivated him to say those words, especially those last two, was a question that he couldn’t answer. Years, now, he’d spent believing himself unworthy of her. Perhaps rightfully. And yet, as he’d stood on the broken threshold of Windrunner Spire, watching her lambent form vanishing deeper into the Ghostland's heavy dark, they’d slipped free. Perhaps a part of him, even then, had known they’d never speak again. Had realized what the inevitable next act of the cosmic joke their cursed existence had become was. And that fault for it lay squarely with him.

All these years. All they’d been through. All that she’d hinted at with her actions. The expenditures of her power for his benefit. What others had told him. That he, because of the burden of his shame, had denied time and time again. She’d needed someone there, they way he had been when they’d lived. Had needed someone on whom she could truly depend at her side. With whom she could share the burden of ruling and protecting their people; on baring the curse of the damned. Someone to lean on, fall back to, if ever there was need. At first, all she’d had was that treacherous Dread Lord, Varimathras, and then she’d had no one at all. She’d wanted him to be her King, yet he’d cowered as her Champion, and being forced to bear it all alone had finally driven her mad.

And now, a King had killed her.

When he’d heard of what was happening and where he’d rushed to her aid but had arrived too late. The Genedar had hung in the sky, a golden facsimile of Naxxramas though it filled him with the sane sense of dread. Holy fire had charred the earth black. His people were gone. And so was she.

His last, and greatest failure.

‘Hunted’ was not a sensation with which he was particularly familiar. Even back when he’d lingered on the destroyed tract of land which had once been the Marris Stead and Stephon, the fool, had been lobbing nit wit Alliance mercenaries at him on the daily like grenades. They’d been easily tricked by the simple act of playing possum. He doubted the Kaldorei Sentinels and the Worgen he’d heard howling in the distance on the off occasion would be. He was the last of the Forsaken, now. There was no where on Azeroth that was safe for him to hide.

Not in this time.

The sand seared through his dark armor, so hot, even where he’d taken shelter beneath the massive skull of a long dead Bronze Dragon, that even his death dulled senses could detect it keenly as discomfort. Wincing, blinking coarse grains from his red eyes, Nathanos began the slow process of digging himself free; the massive skull was far too heavy for a man, even with the increased strength afforded by undeath, to lift and the way he’d gone in the night before had filled in while he’d waited for the lurking sentinels to make themselves scarce. Xal’atath's curved blade scrapped softly along the earth as he wriggled his broad shoulders out into the dry air. Pulling himself, at last, up onto the lip of the dune he’d crested the night before Nathanos looked to the east. The Caverns of Time were just visible in the distance.

As much as he despised the damnable dagger it did, on the off occasion, have good ideas though it no longer spoke, exactly, the way the Shadow Priest who’d wielded it during the Legion’s invasion reported. Instead delivering vague visions meant to serve as direction. Not as useful as it may once have been to him in the same situation, but easier to deceive as consequence.

“Well, dagger, we’re within sight of the Caverns.” He growled, pulling the wicked blade from his belt. The slitted eye in its hilt swiveled about to stare at him. “What am I here for? Because I doubt I’ll simply be able to walk in and find another Kairoz.”

A lancing pain behind his eyes, by now familiar, before an image formed. Hazy and indistinct before it sharpened. Nathanos could make out sandy floors, uneven stone walls and a drake in chains. Its great body bound in glowing coils. A member of the Infinite Flight being held captive.

This he could work with. There could be a deal made with the beast in return for its rescue. Once he’d gotten what he wanted out of it, he’d put an arrow through its neck and throw the damned blade into the Throndrodil. Let it be a curse on some other poor fool. He had no desire to serve the Shath’yar.

It was, in part, dealing with the Old Gods that had gotten them all into this mess.

Growling under his breath and squinting against the blinding light of the Tanaris sun, he made a last check at his surroundings to ensure he wouldn’t be ambushed the moment that he moved and started down the slopping face of the dune.

Distance, in the desert, wasn’t as it appeared to be. Nathanos had learned as much while following that fool of a Horde Champion about in Vol’dune, and though the Cavern had appeared to merely be just over the next handful of dunes another handful of dunes continued to appear each time he reached where he’d thought the caverns lay. It wasn’t until mid-evening, after the sky had tinted violet and red and the air had begun growing cold by the time he finally made it to the base of the ridge of stones which hummed in the gaping maw of the Caverns themselves. Still distant, but Nathanos could see it from where he crouched. Overhead, their scales flashing amber in the dying light, a pair of drakes circled on the warm updrafts which swirled upwards as the earth lost the heat it had absorbed throughout the day.

The dark coloration of his cloak and armor would serve well to camouflage him against the rocky ground while he waited for night to fully fall, at which point the darkness would allow him to move freely without fear of being spotted.

Time, it seemed, was out to spite him as it pressed forward at a shuffling pace. The sun seeming suddenly pinned to the fabric of the desert sky where it hung, half over the horizon. Had he still lived the need to breathe would have given him away long before it finally disappeared.

The leathered flap of wings descended as the two Drakes left the sky, returning down into the depths of the cave for the night. Unfurling from his hunched position, Nathanos peered over the top of the stone he’d hidden behind and then emerged. Moving swiftly across the open expanse of sand and scrambling up the slopping scarp which led up to the entrance. There were no immediately noticeable guards. A glowing violate seam of arcane cut its way along the wall, flowing deeper into the Caverns and shedding a faint light as they went.

The dragon he was looking for was no doubt being held deep in the Cavern’s heart. He still had a long way to go before he even had a hope of reaching it.

The faint light left pools of deep shadow all the way down the length of the twisting passage which led down into the home of the Bronze Flight. He darted from one to the other, avoiding the trains of hulking Drakonid which passed from time to time, massive poleaxes slung over their shoulders, and making it down into the Caverns at last. At the center, its massive golden body coiled around a towering hour glass, was a fully grown Wyrm of intimidating size. Dwarfing the others which flew in circular patterns over head by a large enough margin that the Dark Ranger Lord deemed conflict with it would be better left avoided. Red eyes scanned over the rest of the cavern’s occupants: Wyrmkin and Dragon, Drakes and Whelps in both Draconic form and mortal guise, and more Dakonid. And there, at the far end of the Caverns, was the jagged mouth of another passage which a tug from the dagger drew him towards.

Cautiously, Nathanos started towards it. Weaving his way through the crowded Cavern at a swift clip. Freezing dead still when a whelp turned its head towards him and emitted a high-pitched shriek. A nearby drake creaked open one large amber eye and rumbled a dismissal before returning to sleep.

Nathanos bolted the instant that the chance to do so presented itself. Leaping off the lip of the narrow passage into a careful disengage, sailing over the head of a Scalebane and landing in the sand at the bottom. Catching his balance on the unstable ground a split second before he fell.

The tug of the dagger became even more insistent and Nathanos took only the amount of time necessary to ensure that he still had all of the arrows in his quiver before continuing on his way. Turning around the final bend and finally laying eyes on the beast.

Jet black from muzzle to tail, though in a different way than a Black Dragon would have been, its lustrous scales were like liquid onyx. Pupilless quicksilver eyes slid open and fixated on him. On the dagger at his hip.

“Who are you, mortal?” it growled, baring its peg like teeth.

Who was he, now? A rightful Dark Lord who’d fled from the title like a fool. A Champion who’d failed to protect his Queen. A man who hadn’t been there when the woman he loved more than anything, so powerfully that even death hadn’t been able to thwart it, when she’d needed him the most. “A servant of the Old Gods.” The lie tasted like caustic ichor. “Like you.”

The beast attempted to mantle its wings but the chains wrapped around it prevented its motion. “And what is it that you’ve come for, all this way?”

“I’ve business on the Eve of the Scouring of Eastweald.”

“Business for the Old Gods?”

Nathanos’ lips pressed together into a thin line. “Business for the Old Gods, yes.”

“Well,” the chains clattered as the dragon tried and failed to raise its head. Long sinuous neck arching against its bonds to no effect, “I’m in a bit of a bind at the moment, mortal. In these chains, I can’t slip into the time streams.”

“I’ll let you free if, in return, you see me to my business.”

The Dragon hissed, a curl of smoke rising from its jagged maw. “Very well, ‘Servant of the Old Gods’. Free me from these bonds and I will do so.” Nathanos could sense the ‘but’ before it was spoken. “However, it cannot happen right away. My power is weakened from my captivity. I cannot traverse to another timeline without already being in the location you wish to go to.”

“There’s a portal to Stormwind at the Cavern’s entrance which will serve to get us to the Eastern Kingdoms. From there, you need simply fly north.” He said. “One more question.”

Another low hiss.

“How do I prevent the Bronze lizards from catching up to me.”

“You with to remain in this new timeline permanently?”

“I do.”

The dragon observed him for a long moment of silence, seeming to measure something about him that Nathanos couldn’t quite place. Then, finally, it answered. “Find your native self and eliminate them. Two of the same person in any one time line is an anomaly which will draw in the Bronze like moths to a flame. But if there’s only one of you…”

“Then there’ll be no anomaly.”

“Release me, mortal!” The dragon snapped, impatient. “We’ve lingered here for long enough.”

“Very well.” There was a snap to his own voice, now. Annoyance plain. Stepping closer to the Dragon, the Dark Ranger examined the glowing golden chains. Draconic magic which he could make neither heads nor tails of. But he could feel the links where the aspects of the spell connected. He didn’t need any other knowledge in order to brute force it apart.

Turning his attention inwards, Nathanos reached down into the darkness; the cold swirling mist of the power begotten to Sylvanas through whatever deal she’d made in Helheim and fulfilled at the Maw and had passed to him upon her final death at the hands of the Alliance. It was possible it had simply been a consequence of his being the last of the Forsaken, and strong enough to bear it, but he preferred to think it was through the conscious choice of him as her heir. Yet another sign of the care for him she’d had as more than merely Champion and hound. Care which he’d time and again denied, much, now, to his regret. It was powerful magic that he wasn’t used to wielding. Dark and primal and difficult to contain once it found some outlet for release but none the less responsive to his whims. Eager to please, like a trained mongrel its master. Dimming the glow of the gilded chains to almost nothing before forcing the links apart.

The drake let out a satisfied rumble and rose to its feet. Joints cracking as a scale-clattering stretch rippled through its form. Wings spreading to their full span before being folded once more behind it.

“I’ve kept up my end.” Nathanos growled. “Now, keep up yours.”

The drake narrowed its silver eyes, but crouched low none the less. Pressing its scaled belly to the loose sand. “Swiftly, then, mortal. I have no desire to remain here for any longer than I must.”

“Nor do I.” Grabbing hold of one of the spines jutting from the dragon’s elbow and bracing his foot against the spines on its ankle the Dark Ranger Lord boosted himself up onto the creature’s back. Settling behind the base of its neck, the girth of its body behind its withers too great to sit comfortably astride.

“The portal which you’ve mentioned, mortal, is in the upper mouth of the cavern.” The drake growled. “We’re certain to be pursued.”

“Pursuers will be my concern.” Nathanos snapped. “Your concern is flying.”

The drake growled again but said nothing else. Spreading its wings and heaving them both into the air. Gaining speed as they ascended the curving tunnel before shooting out of the small opening like a Goblin bottle rocket. There was a momentary pause of disbelief before a roar of alarm went up and the Time Watchers rushed after them. Nathanos only had time to catch a brief glimpse of the massive Wyrm rising to its feet before they’d made it clear across the chamber and up the main passage of the other side.

Spinning in his perch atop the drake’s heaving back, almost unseating himself in the process, Nathanos pulled down his bow and took aim. The arms of the heavy weapon, comprised of wood and sinew, creaking as they drew back beneath his hold. The arrow hissing as it flew. Erupting into a burst of dark magic on contact with the dragon at the head of the pursuing pack and spending it spinning from the sky.

Reaching back to pull another from the quiver on his back he took aim again. The effort of the beasts to avoid the shot rendered useless by the long-term exposure to the Azerite his armor had been laced through with at the start of the Blood War all but ensuring any shot he made would strike home. Yet another black arrow driving into the thin neck of another dragon. The Bronze emitting a gurgling shriek as it dropped to the sand.

The remaining three Time Watchers fell back in their pursuit but remained in loose formation. In the gloom of the far end of the tunnel Nathanos caught a brief glimpse of the massive Wyrm rushing up the passage before his vision whited out. The sickening sensation of portal travel breaking over him like a tide.

The creaking crunch of breaking stone. The thundering roar of the drake. Shouts of alarm. Harsh curses. His vision refocused. The stone circle which had housed the now vanished portal to the Caverns of Time was broken and one half of it lay shattered against the white tile and rich sapphire carpet of the floor. The beast’s whipping tail lifting and flinging a Mage away into the nearest wall as she tried to bolt around the beast.

Stormwind’s portal room was far too small to contain the drake which had just forced its way through. The white tiles shattering beneath its heavy taloned paws. Nathanos spun round about again so as to be facing forward only to be immediately forced to duck to prevent the inner threshold of the Mage Tower from taking off his head. Cursing in Gutterspeak and nearly being peeled from the dragon’s back by the low-slung ceiling he now found himself confronted with Nathanos was forced to cling desperately to the ridge of spines along the drake’s back as it slithered down the curving ramp barring their escape. Blasting aside a guard that had attempted to impede its advance with a spew of scalding sand. Realizing that the final obstacle left for them to barrel through was a very narrow stone door the Dark Ranger could only curse again and pull his legs up. The stock blocks giving way against the jut of the dragon’s shoulders with an echoing bang. A cascade of black scales raining down onto the green below as its wings snapped open and it flung them skyward. The sprawl of the Alliance capital, and the gryphon riders who seemed of a mind to attempt to pursue them, falling away below the cloud line as they began the flight north.

With the threat of being smashed into paste against the contours of a stone building no longer present Nathanos allowed his grip on the crest of spines to relax something less than white knuckled. The clouds were thick and cold, their opaque opal veil blocking out all hope he might be able to catch sight of the earth below. But that was fine. There was nothing left for him, now, on this Azeroth. He was bound for a new one.

A chance to undo at least a few of his mistakes. Eliminate some of his regrets. And he had every intention to make full use of.

The undead couldn’t truly sleep, but the monotonous beating of the dragon’s wings served to send him into a trace that was close enough to it. Snapping free only once he felt the creature begin to descend. The clouds of white beginning to blur and twist. Tinting black and gold around the edges of his vision. A spinning nausea making itself known.

“Prepare yourself, mortal.” The beast hissed. “We’re entering the time stream now.”

The tint became a blinding haze. The spinning sensation unbearable. Nathanos felt as if he were being simultaneously stretched thinner than fel taffy and compressed to the size of a pinhead. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, the sensation stopped. The Dark Ranger Lord left gasping for air he didn’t need slumped over the dragon’s back as they dropped at last below the cloud line. Catching sight of the land below him, his eyes widened.

It had been so long since he’d seen his homeland in its prime that he’d almost forgotten what it looked like. And knowing that, even now, there were only hours left before its irrevocable desecration, Nathanos couldn’t help but feel a painful stab of nostalgia for all he’d lost. All that he would lose again.

“Drop me at the Thalassian pass.” Nathanos instructed gruffly, indicating the northern border of mountains between Quel’thalas and Lordaeron. He’d fallen before Sylvanas had, before the Scourge had marched on the Land of Eternal Spring, because he’d gotten leave to rush to his family’s aid. To attempt an evacuation which had all but amounted to nothing. To meet his death attempting to hold the Marris Stead against the abomination, Rammstein the Gorger.

Now would be about the time he was approaching the pass on the Eversong side. Better that he take the offered chance to eliminate any ‘anomalies’ which would threaten his plans.

The drake said nothing, banking around and flying in the indicated direction. Nathanos couldn’t keep his gaze away from the land below: deep forests of trees and rolling green grasslands. Small villages and farmsteads. Trains of people and horse drawn carriages making a doomed effort at escaping across the shallow waters of the Throndroril.

Towering pines dropped away into sparse growth of woody plants and smaller trees and outcropping of rock as they climbed towards the pass. Ultimately landing just above the Lordaeric end of the pass.

Gripping the spine which jutted out between the drake’s shoulders, he swung down. The mail boots kicking up puffs of dust as they met with the dry rock.

“My end of our deal is now fulfilled, mortal.” The dragon hissed. “You make your own way from here.”

“I always intended to.” Nathanos said gruffly. Waiting until the dragon had taken off and turned to fly away before pulling down his bow once again. A single arrow taking it down at range.

Pausing only long enough to draw Xal’atath from his belt and wedge the weapon as deep into a narrow crevice in the rocks as he could Nathanos made the short climb down onto the path below.

By his estimates he had just under an hour’s time before this timeline’s version of him exited the pass, bound for the Marris Stead where his family was making their last preparations to leave. Nothing short of a physical barrier, he remembered, would have been enough to stop him getting back to them.

So, a physical barrier would be precisely what he had to make. And the two good sized trees on either side of the narrow road would serve to do just that.

Ripping the sword from his belt the Blightcaller started in on the nearest tree. Hacking crescents from the dry wood with low, resonating thuds which echoed off the enclosing outcroppings of rock. Finally making it far enough through it that he could physically push it over. The felled tree meeting with the ground with a heavy thud. Leaping atop it, the Dark Ranger Lord swiftly skittered to the second tree and did the same. Satisfied that the resultant encumbrance was too wide, now, for a galloping horse to leap in one go, Nathanos coiled down amid the brush to wait.

It wasn’t long before his enhanced hearing picked up the distant thunder of hooves. Growing closer and closer until he could hear the huffing of the animal. Differentiate the fall of one hoof from the next. It came around the corner a moment later, its rider, clad in the familiar hooded green chain of the Farstriders, catching sight of the blockade and cursing. Pulling back on the reigns of the horse to force it to a stop and swinging himself down from the saddle. Rushing, thoughtlessly, distracted, to the felled trees.

Nathanos slipped from the brush, slinking up on himself like a cat on a mouse as the Farstrider bent to examine the nearest trunk. Realizing that it hadn’t fallen naturally, he spun around just in time to meet his sword with his own. Brown eyes going round with shock.

“W-What?”

Knowing, even with the slight shift in his features caused by the ritual to restore to him a stronger form, that there was still more than enough of what had originally been there present for him to recognize himself. Taking advantage of his alternate self’s shock, the Dark Ranger pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back and slashed the blade across the Farstrider’s throat.

Blood, vibrant crimson, erupted from the wound. Staining the forest green breast-plate he wore. Dripping from the corners of his mouth when he opened it in an effort to speak. The only sound that came out was a rough gurgle as his knees gave way and he collapsed against him.

“Believe me,” freeing his blade from the Farstrider’s, Nathanos drove it up under his alternate self’s chain mail to deliver the finishing blow, “this is a mercy compared to what fate you would have met. And at least this way you won’t have to suffer this curse.”

Ripping the blade free, Nathanos lowered the Farstrider-dead or dying he didn’t care-to the dusty ground. Taking a moment to weave an illusion over himself, black armor lightening to green, crimson eyes becoming a more natural ocher color, he pulled a small vial of liquid flame from the folds of his armor and threw it down onto the body. The flames flaring orange as he turned away towards the horse.

The animal shied from him but he caught its reigns in his hands and delivered a rough, reprimanding tug. It snorted and reared. Yanked wildly against the leather. Relenting only once it had tired and seemed to resign itself to the fact that the dead man which now had a hold of it would not be letting go. Forcing the felled trees aside with a brief thought and a pulse of that dark power, the disguised Dark Ranger swung himself up into the saddle and continued down the road.


	2. Chapter 2

Smoke rose in thick pillars of black against the horizon to all sides of him, already tinted bloody red by the setting sun. The air was almost unseasonably cold and tense with a palpable sense of dread. The horse beneath him had yet to relax over his presence and remained ridged beneath him. Sides heaving unshod hooves thundering against the worn smooth cobbles of the main road already littered with signs of hasty passage: discarded or lost belongings littering the dark green grass. The windows of the houses and farms that he passed were dark; staring eyes devoid of any signs of life. Many of the doors were left open and livestock left to wander wild. Nathanos had seen signs of the ongoing evacuation efforts from astride the Dragon’s back yet being confronted by them at ground level made the children’s toys and lost clothes and scattered remnants of normal lives which would never be the same, somehow made it, and the knowledge that most of them would never make it beyond the grasp of the Scourge, more real. Brought back the terror that he’d felt before his first death, the last time he’d made this same desperate trip on horseback, in a way so visceral that he could almost feel his panicked heartbeat thudding against his ribs again.

Nathanos sneered and forced his eyes forward. Digging his heels into the horse’s sides to push the animal faster. Sentimentality was something that he couldn’t afford. Not now. The living were the enemy of the Forsaken. Would never cease to condemn them as monsters. If his people, his Queen, were to have any hope of being allowed to exist then the living, all of them, needed to be eradicated. Even his own family.

Stephon. Unbidden and bitterly against his will the memories of their last meeting boiled up within him. The pride at seeing him grown into a man, having achieved his goal and become a Paladin. Betrayal that the boy he’d raised, half as a brother and half as a son, was just another among many who would look at him and call him ‘monster’; deny his right to exist on account of a curse he hadn’t asked for. Remorse at the sight of the remnants the ritual had left behind, the features that weren’t truly his glaring back at him from out of the mirror; grief over the knowledge that the only other he’d loved aside from Sylvanas was never coming back.

Perhaps, if he were a weaker man, he’d given in to the sentiment which even now threatened to devour him. Would take his cousin and keep him with him. Raise him around the Forsaken. Condition him out of the hatred and fear which seemed instinctual whenever one of the living were confronted with one of the damned. And then, when he’d reached adulthood, afflict him as well because a King and a Queen would always have a need for a Prince.

But he wouldn’t. Because such a thing would be a sign of weakness he couldn’t afford. Because Stephon didn’t deserve to suffer the way that he’d been forced to. Didn’t deserve to die, this time, the way that he had. So Nathanos would ensure that he reached safety, somewhere far way from Lordaeron, give him every chance to make something of himself free of his shadow, his curse, and would write himself out of his life.

He hadn’t had the will to do so last time, had followed him every night on his ‘patrols’ to see him safe, but this time he would. He’d find it. He had to.

Up ahead, a barrier had been erected blocking passage. A handful of men immediately recognizable as Knights of the Silver Hand by their gleaming armor, were manning the blockade; one stepped forward at the sight of his approach and drew his weapon.

“_Halt!”_ He shouted gruffly, squaring up in an effort to make himself look bigger. Sure. But Nathanos could see the worry in his eyes. Smell the fear rolling off him. This Paladin and his two companions had no clear idea of what was going on. What it was they truly faced. How many of them, the Dark Ranger found himself wondering, would make it through that night alive? “All civilian traffic has been cleared from the area. Only military personnel are still permitted to still be here. Suspicious figures are the be detained. Identify yourself!”

“I _am_ military, you **_idiot_**!” Nathanos snapped. If one thing hadn’t changed in all the years he’d borne his curse it was his lacking patience for the living. “Nathanos Marris!”

“I don’t know of anyone by that name in Lordaeron’s military.”

“This is because he’s _not_ in Lordaeron’s military, Lon.” One of the other men said. “He’s the Ranger Lord of the Farstriders. Lady Windrunner’s right hand.”

“Quel’thalas.” The first Paladin who’d spoken grumbled, his tone making it clear what he thought about Elves, and Nathanos felt his hackles rise. “So you’re here without leave, then, ‘Ranger Lord’?”

“I have leave!” He spat. “Now, I’ll make myself crystal clear: you are standing between me and my family. I have very little to lose. There are more arrows in my quiver than the three of you and I don’t make a habit of missing, certainly not at close range. You can move or I can move you.”

The third Paladin, who thus far hadn’t spoken, raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat, Lord Marris?”

Nathanos fixed him in a burning stare. “Absolutely.”

Whether it was the threat of trouble, his rank or the potential of sparking an international incident that pushed matters in his favor Nathanos neither knew nor cared. Grumbling under his breath, the first Paladin directed his fellows to shift the barricade aside. “Let him through.”

“Good luck.” The second said; a young man with red hair and freckles on his pale face. “I hope you find your family in good health. Light protect you.”

The Dark Ranger restrained the urge to sneer at the mere mention of the Light only narrowly and prodded his mount forward. Guiding the petrified animal through the opening which had been cleared, Nathanos pushed the horse back to a full gallop and tore off down the road. Flying passed the fork which lead down to Darrowshire and turning off onto the narrow drive heading up the hill to the Marris Stead.

This was the place where he’d been born and raised. The place to which he’d returned on every leave he’d ever gotten. Where he’d bred hounds and worked in the fields, bare backed beneath the baking sun. Where Stephon had perched, every evening, on the fence post to watch the Paladins go by. Where Sylvanas had visited him and told him it was his responsibility to believe in his cousin’s dream.

Where he’d squatted for years as the structure fell to pieces around him, alone.

But this wasn’t the crumbled wreckage which had rotted near to nothing in the miasmic air of the Plaguelands. This was the Marris Stead as it had been while his family had lived there. A place of warmth and light and laughter. A home.

But not his home. Not anymore. He wasn’t one of the living. This wasn’t his place. But that didn’t stop the painful stab of nostalgia and regret which rocked him to his very core. The sight of the woman who rushed through the door, eyes wide and brown curls bouncing at her shoulders, and hurried towards him did nothing to help him in grounding himself.

“Nathanos!”

There was no stopping it. He was going to lose them again. It was better that he kept them at bay, this time, and saved himself the needless, pointless pain which at its core was nothing more than a sign of weakness. A weakness that he hated. That he was better then. Yet his body disobeyed. Acting without input from a mind in turmoil, motivated only by a flare of emotion the Blightcaller had thought decayed into inexistence, he threw himself form the saddle while the horse was still moving. Landing wrong and stumbling before righting himself. Tripping the last few feet into a firm embrace.

“Mother!” This was wrong. This was something he didn’t have time for! When Nathanos had made his plans to go back in time, to a new timeline, he hadn’t thought for even a moment to factor in what seeing his family again might do to him.

He’d thought himself too heartless, or at the very least too jaded, for such a thing to affect him and yet now, had he still possessed the ability to shed tears, he’d have cried harder than he had since he was a young boy.

His mother pulled back but didn’t release him, cupping his cheek with a calloused hand. Worry creasing her brow. “You’re cold.”

Of course he was cold! He’d been dead for decades! Trapped in a body slowly rotting around him. “We don’t have time for you to be worrying over me, mother!” He said gruffly, still flustered at the strength of his own emotions. “Where’s Stephon? And Allias? We need to get across the Throndroril; head south to safety!”

“Stephon is inside, packing the last of his things. Allias is bringing the cart around; he’s insistent on staying behind to free the animals before he catches up with us.”

“Bring your things outside to wait for him.” Nathanos ordered, annoyed. Their former farmhand always had been a touch soft headed; too willing to risk too much for beasts which were unable to return that loyalty, unlike his own beloved hounds. “I’ll get Stephon.”

He didn’t wait for her reply and slipped passed her into the house. Passing through the kitchen and up the staircase and quickly fining his cousin’s room. Throwing the door open.

Stephon, aged 13, had just begun to transition from ‘small child’ into ‘grown man’ and as such his limbs were left gangly and his frame little different from a bean pole. The bang the door made against the opposite wall made him jump and spin around, dropping the wooden figurine in his hands with a clatter. Scrip, the near-to-blind herding hound which had been curled up on the foot of his bet, leapt down and yapped at him only to be silenced by a barked command.

“Nathanos?” he both looked and sounded as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What are you doing up here, fiddling with toy soldiers, in the middle of an evacuation?” he demanded, snatching the boy’s filled satchel from the ground. “There’s no time to be worrying ourselves over petty knickknacks! Only the essentials! Leash that dog!”

The color draining from his face at his older cousin’s gruff manner Stephon scrambled to drag the length of knotted leather from beneath his hay-stuffed mattress and slipped the loop around the hound’s neck. Scrip had recognized him now, it seemed, as the barks and growls had been replaced with a lolling tongue and wagging tail.

“Do you have everything?” Nathanos demanded, finally prompting his cousin to speak.

“Yes.” The word came out as almost a squeak.

“Even the coin?” the coin which Sylvanas had given him when last she’d visited, back when Stephon was only nine. The coin which, back in the other Azeroth, he’d discarded in the Throndroril upon learning the truth of their fate.

Another hurried nod. “Yes.”

“Good. Take this. We need to leave.” Nathanos thrust the bag into Stephon’s hands but maintained his grip on one of the straps, preventing the young teen from exiting the room. “Listen to me. If anything happens while the two of you are headed to the river, find a camp of Paladins. With the order of the Silver Hand active in the area there should be one nearby. I’ll find you there and make sure that you reach Stormwind.

“Find me?” he repeated, wide eyed. “What do you mean ‘find me’? You’re not going to be with us?”

“Not immediately.” Nathanos said. “Allias is staying behind to let the animals free and I’m staying to ensure he doesn’t get himself killed in the attempt. We’ll catch up with you.”

Giving his cousin no chance to argue Nathanos whisked the boy before him down the stairs and out of the house.

Allias had made his way back around from the barn, down in the low pasture, with their two horses-Reiner and Dale-lashed to the front of the cart. His mother was being assisted in the effort of loading what few belongings they were taking with them by another pair of Paladins who’d ridden up on the scene.

“Mr. Marris.” Allias grunted on catching sight of him, dropping out of the cart. “I didn’t know you were gonna be back from up north.”

“I’d hardly call this planned, Allias!” He snapped. “Up, Stephon. Take the dog with you.”

“Yes, Sir.” Lifting Scrip up from the ground and slinging his pack into the cart Stephon clambered up after it.

Satisfied with his cousin’s obedience, Nathanos turned to his mother. “We’ll catch up with you.”

“You’re staying behind?” she asked, horrified.

“To protect Allias. We’ll be along, mother, I promise. Worry about looking after yourself and Stephon.”

“It’s better that you leave with them, Sir.” One of the Paladin’s said. “Civilians-.”

“I,” Nathanos snapped, cutting him off, “am not a civilian! If you wish to ‘stay and assist’ in protecting our idiot farmhand you’re welcome to do so. Allias!”

“Mr. Marris?”

“Finished up with the blasted animals so we can be on our way!” The barked order seemed to be all the farmhand required to go pelting back towards the far pasture. Nathanos watched him go with impassive eyes, well aware the first wave of ghouls had already reached the outskirts of their property. And along with them…

“Abomination sighted!” The other Paladin’s shouted warning prompted the first to draw his sword. “Ma’am, take the boy and be on your way; there’s a last train of refugees headed westward across the river. You should be able to catch up with them.”

“Of course.” She said, then glanced over at him. Nathanos could clearly see the fear in her eyes as his mother clambered up into the cart and took the reins. “Be safe.”

Wordlessly, he nodded and watched the horse drawn cart roll away over the lip of the hill.

“Well, ‘not civilian’,” the first Paladin said, “I hope you know how to use those weapons you have because that thing is big and doesn’t look friendly.”

“I’m not friendly either.” The Dark Ranger pulled down his bow and knocked an arrow on the string. “The two of you had best prove yourselves useful because I don’t have the time or energy to spare babysitting imbeciles!” He’d been alone, last time, when Rammstein the Gorger had reached his home. Had fought alone against the unholy mass of rusted chain and animated flesh which had buried its massive hook in his chest. Had died alone, in a pool of his own blood, on the cold and unforgiving ground.

The voices in his head, after he’d been raised, hadn’t allowed him solitude until Sylvanas had saved him.

Never again.

The Paladins predictably weren’t pleased with his comment. Their brows knitting together and their lips pulling down into pursed frowns. They didn’t comment on it, though, having too much else to concern themselves with as the stench of the approaching beast rolled towards them like a poison cloud. The two men wretched, their eyes watering and their expressions pinched. Nathanos’ keener senses could detect the hellacious stench even more strongly than they could but it didn’t have the same pugnacious effect. Still, it was important to blend in so he mimicked their disgust a best he could. Blinking owlishly through the falling dark as if it truly did impede him.

And then the abomination crested the hill in all its horror. Greyish mottled flesh stretched tight over stuffings of gore. The muddled entrails of humans and animals alike pressed tight against stitchings made from fetid sinew. Oozing between the jutting rib tips like purple tongues, dribbling a trail of foul ichor behind it. The third hand which jutted from its upper back clutched the meat hook which had taken his life.

The Val’kyr ritual which had restored him had left his death wound a closed over scar, yet the sight of the hook sent blazing spindles of pain shooting through his chest. Nathanos but back a snarl by the skin of his teeth, not that it would have been audible even if he hadn’t as the abomination announced in a booming voice “_Rammstein hungry!”_

He’d be happy to spare a helping of Dark Arrows.

Raising the bow and taking aim, Nathanos fired. The arrow wailing as it flew; embedding itself uselessly in the flesh and fat of the abomination’s near to non-existent neck. Exploding a moment later when the device attached behind the head detonated, ripping meat and stitching free of the bone beneath. Rammstein groaned and spun around to face him. The chain attached to the meat hook clattering as it was lobbed at him. Nathanos disengaged, firing off two more shots in midair, then darted to the right. Holding the beast’s attention, the monster fixated on him as the Paladins closed in behind it. The glint of a blade being swung. The blinding flash of Holy magic, his own skin burning with its proximity.

The abomination roared and spun around again but Nathanos didn’t give it the chance to react. Leaping onto its broad back like a wild cat and embedding the hatchet in his hand with all the force that he could muster somewhere between where its shoulder blades should be with all the force that he could muster. Hearing the audible snick of the blade as it bit deep and lodged in place.

Rammstein bellowed and caught hold of him with its third arm, throwing him too the ground. His body collided with a heavy thud. The threads of necrotic magic binding him to his body misfiring once, twice, before he regained control of his limbs and leapt upright.

Only for the hook to catch him head on, its rusted tip cracking through his sternum and embedding itself in his breast. The pain was dulled by comparison to the first time but his vision still went white, his awareness momentarily dipping out before returning.

The first thing he noticed was the panicked yelling of the two men whose misfortune had led them there. Then the radiating pain, jittering outwards from the ragged tear in his chest. And finally, the fact that he was lying on his back, a good handful of yards away from the fighting likely on account of having been tossed after the monster had lost interest in his apparent corpse.

Growling under his breath and pushing the radiating discomfort aside, Nathanos dragged himself onto his feet. Eyes traveling from his dropped bow and scattered arrows to his discarded sword and the hatchet still embedded in the abomination’s back. Blood, congealed and rotted black, dribbled from one corner of his mouth. He spat, then reached within himself for where the darkness lay.

The Maw rushed up to meet him. Eager as it curled around his fingers. Addictive as it eddied about him, pleading to be used, desperate to be fed. More than through with this farce of a fight, Nathanos was happy to oblige.

Like a striking serpent the darkness lashed out, passing through the abomination like an apparition and taking the magic responsible for animating it with it. The stitchings came unraveled, the cobbled together hunks of flesh rolling away as the monster collapsed. The Maw, obedient, returned to him when it was called back, shrouding his body in bruise like mist.

The Paladins had broken from their stupor and now stood facing him with weapons raised. Terror clear in their eyes. Bearing his teeth in a feral grin Nathanos allowed his disguise to slip, and the sight of his glaring red eyes only seemed to unnerve them more.

“Well, it would seem the gig is up,” he drawled. “No point concealing matters now.”

“You!” The braver of the two demanded. Blade shaking in his hands. “What are you?”

“The Dark Lord.” The Maw struck again and the two men fell, their swords clattering against the ground. Dismissing the power, Nathanos rearranged his cloak so that the rend in his chest piece was mostly covered and collected his fallen weapons. Returning each to their proper place before turning his attention to the fallen Paladins.

It had been a long time since he’d indulged the craving for living flesh instilled in him by his curse, but he needed to patch himself up and didn’t have access to a Necrosurgeon. There wasn’t another choice if he wanted a swift recovery.

Pausing only long enough to ensure there was no one else around to stumble upon him Nathanos crouched beside what had been the mouthier of the two. Skilled fingers undoing the latchings of the gloves and bracers and pushing back the leathers to reveal the bare flesh of the arm underneath. Sinking in his teeth before he could think better of it and tearing away a strip of meat. Devoting his focus to pushing away the memories, vague flashes of feeling and confusion, from his time in the Scourge rather than the reality of what it was in his mouth. Nathanos swallowed. Bit down and tore again. Repeating the process until nothing off the arm was left but bone and the wound had been once more reduced to a livid scar.

Sneering at the persistent taste of iron in his mouth, Nathanos made his way back to where he’d left his horse and swung up into the saddle. Ignoring the grunting cries of ghouls drawing ever closer, he followed the tracks of his family’s cart already aware of what awaited him.

The cart overturned, one of the wheels snapped off with the struts jutting outwards like broken fingers. Reiner and Dale, among other horses, lying slaughtered. Torn ground and fallen bodies and, lying prone beside the cart, his mother.

Stephon and Scrip had both gotten away and he, as he was, had no time for sentimentality or the stabbing feeling in his chest. Turning his back on the scene of carnage, forcing all thoughts of it from his mind, Nathanos scanned the near horizon for signs of a nearby camp and quickly found what he was looking for.

Directing his horse through the thick forest lining the road on either side until he was close enough to clearly make out the point of light as a wood fed flame. Dismounting, the Dark Ranger tied the reigns to a hanging branch and continued forward on food, announcing himself with a shouted hail to prevent the Paladins from startling at the sight of him emerging from the trees.

“Another separated refugee?” the man who had walked up to him, looking relatively relaxed and with his weapon hung at his belt, was older than the other two who’d come upon the stead and, on account of that fact, Nathanos deduced he was likely of higher rank.

“No.” He grunted roughly. “Farstrider. Got leave for family.”

“And you’re looking for them?”

“I found one of them.”

The other’s wrinkled features became even more grim. “I’m sorry.” Nathanos’ glare in reply seemed to communicate everything necessary. “Would you happen to be looking for a young boy and an old dog?”

“Would you happen to have them here?” an arbitrary question, as he could already see them both; Stephon staring numbly into the fire, both his arms and legs wrapped around the tired looking hound.

“We do.” The Paladin said. “You’re welcome to stay the night here before continuing on your way. It’s unsafe to travel at night with all the madness going on.”

“Thank you.” Stepping around the man, Nathanos headed towards the fire. The other man following behind him.

“These two belong to him.” He said by way of explanation when the others looked up, questions in their eyes. “He’s not an orphan, thank the Light.”

Wordlessly, Nathanos took an open seat beside the fire. Pulling down his bow and quiver, then unclipping his sword and hatchet and setting them beside him. The soft scuff of feet reached his ear just as a thin shadow fell over him; the Dark Ranger looked up in time to Stephon, eyes concealed beneath his fringe, all but lunge at him.

His 13-year-old cousin had just thrown himself into his arms, buried his face in his chest-pressed against his bare, cold skin-and broken down into tears and Nathanos, grown man and rather emotionally stunted in no small part due to decades of undeath, had no idea what to do. The instinct for such things had fled him long ago. His mind had hung himself up on the concept of ‘cannot afford attachment’ but had otherwise ground to a complete and utter halt. Stephon was clutching at him desperately, apparently unfazed by his corpse-like chill, and the Paladins were staring.

Given that pushing the boy off wouldn’t have been received well Nathanos, stiffly, wrapped his arms around his heaving frame and half-heartedly patted him until the other men lost interest.

By that point Stephon had dozed off though his grip-as Nathanos soon discovered when he attempted to pry him off-hadn’t lessened. Ultimately, the Dark Ranger simply gave up and let him sleep; Stephon in his lap and Scrip pressed into his side. He spent most of the night pretending to doze and watched the Paladin’s go about the change of guard.

The pink tinge of sunrise came as something of a relief. The Knights of the Silver Hand insisted on providing them a meal, forcing him to choke down a ration of bread and smoked meat to save face, before allowing them to leave. Stephon followed silently behind him until they were out of ear shot, and what he said then gave his cousin abrupt pause.

“Why did you eat?”

The Dark Ranger glanced over as he untied the horse. “Why did I eat?”

“Their food.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why does anyone eat food?” he drawled. “I was hungry.”

Stephon made a disbelieving noise, crossing his arms over his chest. Gripping the leash in a white-knuckled hand. “If you were hungry at all I doubt it was for bread and dried meat.”

His hackles had begun to rise but Nathanos forced the snap to remain out of his voice. “I still don’t understand.”

“You don’t have a heartbeat.”

Nathanos went stiff, then cursed in Thalassian. Leaving the freed reins to dangle he turned to fully face him. “We are _not_ going to talk about this here.” The growl rumbled low in his chest. “Am I understood?”

Stephon nodded, picked up Scrip and allowed his older cousin to drag him up into the saddle behind him. Gripping the reins tight in hand, Nathanos guided the horse back towards the cobbled road.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you afraid of me?”

They’d travel in silence for almost an hour, now, and Nathanos supposed that he’d just gotten fed up with the quiet.

Stephon, who had been clutching Scrip with both arms leaned forward with his head propped against his cousin’s broad back, sat up. Reaching up with one hand to paw at his brown eyes. “Afraid of you?”

“Yes.” There was impatience in his voice now. “Are you afraid of me, Stephon, now that you know that I’m one of them?”

“You’re not.”

Nathanos stiffened again and felt his cousin’s arms briefly tighten around his middle. “I’m not what?” he demanded. “Undead? You’re well aware that’s untrue. A monster?” The Dark Ranger snorted. “Spare me.”

“But you’re _not_!” Given how young he still was Stephon wasn’t quite able to achieve sounding vicious but he certainly tried. His little fingers dug into his mail chest piece, broken nails pressing into the eyelets of the interlocking links. Scrip squirmed between them. “You’re _not_ a monster, Nathanos. You’re _not_! Not like them.”

Letting out an exasperated huff, Nathanos gripped the reins in his hands even tighter. “Inform me,” he drawled, “as to how it is that I’m _not_ a monster?”

Stephon bowed his head. Just when Nathanos didn’t think he was going to respond he spoke again. So quietly that, even with his enhanced hearing, he almost didn’t catch his words. “You came back for us.”

That gave the Dark Ranger pause. He had come back for his family, for Stephon, but that was out of necessity, simply because he had nothing better to do while he waited for Arthas to finish wreaking havoc, and not out of any remaining bonds of attachments. Not out of any goodness left to linger in the withered chambers of his blackened heart. Not out of any motive that wouldn’t mark him as a monster.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Still, he let it drop for the time being. Nathanos expected that the conversation would end there but it didn’t because Stephon spoke again.

“Mother said that you were cold. I heard her. The window was open.” He said. “How long?”

“How long?” Playing dumb wasn’t as effective as playing dead, it seemed. They weren’t far from the Throndrodil, now. He could see the white arch of the bridge in the distance. He forced himself to stare straight ahead, well aware that his cousin wouldn’t be distracted.

“How long have you been…have you been…” Stephon seemed to struggle for words for a moment, almost as if he worried the wrong word might offend him, then finally settled for “like this?”

He could have refused to answer. He could have lied. But, in what almost amounted to a fit of impulsive resolve, Nathanos found himself without the desire to fabricate a story for Stephon. When he first determined his plan, it had only been Sylvanas he’d intended to tell the truth, yet now that his cousin had asked that question it were as if Pandora’s box had been opened. And this time there was no one present to slam the lid closed before hope could escape as well.

“A long time.” Nathanos said. “And, likewise, it’s been…a long time since we’ve last seen each other.”

“Five years.” Stephon propped his head against his back again. “The last time you got leave to come home I was nine.”

“Five years for you. For me…fifteen. Longer, maybe.” Nathanos grunted. “Time blurs with this curse. Nothing is vibrant or clear. It all just melds together.”

“But,” even without having to look at him Nathans could envision the confusion on his cousin’s far, “how could that be?”

“There are magics capable of altering time.” Nathanos said. “I failed, the first time. So, I’m here to try again.”

“Altering time? Like time travel? The only things that can do that in the stories are Dragons. The ones with the golden scales.”

He grunted, hoping Stephon would get the message and stop talking, but naturally he didn’t.

“But…what did you fail?”

What hadn’t he failed? The list was far too long to go through then and there. Or ever. “Everything.” Nathanos said. “I won’t let it happen again. Not this time.”

Whether he was referencing what had happened to Stephon, what had happened to Sylvanas, or something else entirely the Dark Ranger couldn’t say.

At last, Stephon’s curiosity seemed to be temporarily sated and he fell silent. Returning to his former position nestled against his larger body, with his own curled around the hound. Grateful for the quiet, Nathanos directed his attention to their surroundings.

And immediately noticed that something was off.

Stiffening in the saddle, he pulled back on the reins and drew the horse to a stop. Ears straining for any sounds. Head tilted up and back to scent the air. His cousin remained quiet, but Nathanos could sense his disquiet; feel it in the panicked patter of his heart against his back.

Reaching up to pull down his bow, Nathanos clutched the horse firmly with his legs and ordered “stay quiet and hold on. We’re getting out of here.”

A twitch of the reins was all it took to set the horse flying. The sudden motion inciting the creatures stalking them to make an appearance. Geists leapt down from the branches above, to the sides and in front of them. One pounced from their right only to be greeted with an arrow through its single eye. It fell, twitching, to the ground and writhed against the broken cobbles. Two more blocked their way but the Dark Ranger didn’t falter and trampled them underfoot.

The bridge. The bridge! If they could get across the Throndrodil, they’d have broken free of the Scourge’s current line and reached safety. Only a few more yards now.

“_Nathanos!”_

Stephon’s shout and a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye were all the warning that he had. Grabbing both his cousin and the dog Nathanos leapt from the saddle, coiling his body around them, colliding with the ground shoulder first then rolling up onto all fours. Stephon was clinging to him, petrified. Scrip was snarling and barking, every one of his wiry black hairs on end.

“Go!” He bellowed, peeling Stephon off him and all but lobbing him down the road. “Get across the bridge!”

Nathanos lunged at the first geist which attempted to get passed him. Seizing it with his hands, the archer’s claws on the tips of his gauntlets cutting into rotting flesh. Rending through to bone and breaking it. Snarling, he threw the wriggling geist back at its fellows and snatched up his bow. Emptying his quiver and turning tail. The lesser undead giving up the chase not long after, doubtlessly having deemed him to difficult a struggle to be worth bringing down.

Footsteps thudding over the hump of the bridge Nathanos scanned the tree line for any signs of his cousin. Catching sight of Scrip and Stephon a moment later, he slowed his pace as he approached them. Mortified to realize that what had been worry for the boy’s safety was bleeding out of him with a harsh huff of breath.

“A-Are they gone?” his cousin was gripping the growling dog around the neck, face buried in his dark fur as he knelt beside him in the grass.

“Yes.” Nathanos told him. “Those are what attacked you before?” Stephon’s wordless nod confirmed his assumption that the geists had been lying in wait to thwart any efforts by civilians to escape the Lich King’s grasp. “They’re not coming back. I killed a few of them and the rest have realized they’d best look elsewhere if they’re in search of easy prey.”

“That’s good.” His voice was shaky and so were his knees as he rose to his feet, only to nearly topple over. Nathanos reached out a hand and grasped his narrow shoulder, propping him up.

The Dark Ranger grunted. “What isn’t so good is that we’ve lost our horse and I’ve run out of arrows.” He said. “We’re not far from Andorhal, now. For the time being, at least, the city should be safe. We’ll spend another few days there setting up to travel south.”

“How long until we reach it?” Stephon asked, his thin fingers worrying at Scrip’s fur.

“If we set out now, on foot, an hour. Maybe two.” Nathanos said. “We’ve no time to waste. Come along.”

With one hand gripping the knotted letter lead and the other gripping a fistful of his older cousin’s rain scaled cloak, Stephon wordlessly complied and the pair set off once more down the road.

The signs of the frantic passage were still present here, though to a much lesser metric on account of the fact that the refugees who’d managed to escape the initial zone of contamination had been few. Even fewer, he knew, would escape when it inevitably spread. Still, things as they were would do well to serve his purposes for the time being. He needed a new horse, a bowyer and access to a forge so that he could repair his armor, indispensable on account of the Azerite threaded through it, and Stephon needed a roof over his head and a proper bed to sleep in, as well as a plentiful supply of water and rations. At least enough to last them until they reached Menethil Harbor in the Wetlands. And, by his calculations, Nathanos had just enough coin on him to pay for it all.

Anything else Stephon would require at a later point in their travels would have to be paid for through menial labor or acquired by stealing. An annoyance, certainly, but a passing one: he’d have no need for such things once he’d returned to the nascent Plaguelands and begun his work in earnest.

The sun hung just passed its crowning position in the sky by the time they reached the city of Andorhal. This was the place where, every year at harvest time, his family would go to sell the crops they’d grown but the last time Nathanos had seen it the city had been little more than a half-standing ruin. A battle ground between the Alliance, the Horde and Gandling’s Necromancer lackies. Now, it stood before him in the twilight hours of its hay day, all sturdy buildings and busy streets. Citizens bustled about in and out of shops and homes with nary a care in the world. Music and drunken laughter spilled from the open door of a nearby tavern. The market was awash with activity: tradesmen teaching apprentices, merchants hawking their wares, customers haggling over produce for a better price; a copper less, a silver. The only signs that something was amiss came in the presence of soldiers in the streets, armed and on patrol yet themselves almost lost in the pulse and flow.

Like livestock unaware of their impending slaughter, Nathanos thought blithely, if they did nothing to even attempt to save themselves than these people deserved to die.

Shifting Stephon from beside him to in front of him so that he wouldn’t lose track of either boy or dog in the heaving mass of bodies, holding his breath as the scent of so much meat threatened to drive his curse haywire, the Dark Ranger charted a course for the Brookestone Inn. Ducking through the door and into the lobby, furnished in wood and scented by some manner of atrocious incense which burned his eyes and the back of his throat. Scrip sneezed and shook himself out, and Nathanos briefly found himself envying the hound.

Leaving his cousin standing nervously beside the door the Dark Ranger stepped up to the desk and rapped harshly against it with his fingers. The rapid approach of footsteps heralded the Innkeep’s arrival before he emerged from a small doorway, no doubt leading into an office of some sort. Middle aged, with auburn hair falling to his shoulders. Wearing a blue blouse made to look finer than it was and failing to meet the mark. If only because they couldn’t afford to be tossed out onto the street Nathanos held his tongue.

“Hello, Sir.” The Innkeep said primly. “What can I do for you?”

“A room, large enough for two.” He said. “My cousin and I are in need of a place to stay while preparations are made to continue south. I’ll pay by the night as need be.”

“No hurry, good Sir. Andorhal is perfectly safe, I assure you. You and your…son?”

In some aspects. “Cousin.”

“You and your cousin needn’t go rushing anywhere. The madness in Eastweald will soon be contained by King Terenas’ men, I’m sure.”

King Terenas’ men, Nathanos knew, wouldn’t be ‘containing’ anything. “Inform me of the fare or I’ll assume the room is free.”

Apparently realizing that the Dark Ranger wasn’t particularly pleased with the assurances that he was attempting to give the man nodded and switched gears. “That will be 65 silver and 23 copper a night. Two meals are included in that price.”

Nathanos reached into his purse and dropped the proper amount of coins onto the top of the desk. “We’ll show ourselves up.” His tone brokered no argument. The Innkeep didn’t attempt to dissuade him, having learned from last time, and simply handed the key across the desk.

Motioning for Stephon to follow him, Scrip’s talons clicking against the wooden floor, Nathanos turned and led the way up the stairs. Matching the number on the key to the number on the appropriate door and pushing it open. Two beds. A window. A desk. Nathanos didn’t bother sparing the furnishings too much attention, noticing only their presence and what they were but not their color or specific appearance.

It would do. He closed the door and pocketed the key.

“You’re not to leave this room without me.” Nathanos said. “And you’re not to eat _anything_ until I’ve checked it. There’s no way to know just by sight what’s safe and what’s tainted. Am I understood?” Stephon nodded, his attempt to mumble a response not quite managing to make it over the threshold of being audible. Leading Scrip over to the nearest bed. “Are you hungry?”

The boy considered this for a moment before he nodded again and managed to voice “a little.”

“I’ll go have that idiot of an Innkeep bring up some food for you.” Nathanos said. “Stay here.”

An unnecessary demand, more than likely, but one that he made none the less. Waiting long enough to be certain that his cousin wouldn’t be moving from the bed any time soon, the Dark Ranger exited the room once again and returned down the stairs. Nearly bowling over the man at the bottom, holding two trays of food.

“Ah, I was just about to bring these up to you Sir.” He said. Attempting to appear unphased by Nathanos’ gruff demeanor.

“I’ll take them.” Nathanos took the trays before the other man could protest and returned up the stairs. Stephon was still sitting on his bed, Scrip curled up in his lap, when he returned. He looked up and watched his older cousin move across the room and set the trays down on the table.

Hearty grain bread. Beef stew. A pewter pitcher full of watered-down wine. Nathanos picked up each item and critically examined it. Seeking any signs of tampering. Sorting through the mingled scents of cooking spices for any hints of the Plague which wouldn’t have been detectable to the living.

Nothing.

Lifting the first tray again, Nathanos set it in front of his cousin before taking his own to the second bed and sitting down.

“You’re eating again?” Stephon asked, picking up his hunk of bread and tearing off a piece.

“Unless you can finish both of these portions?” His cousin quickly shook his head. “Then it’s our only option if we don’t want to draw undue attention. Do you want any of this?”

“If you don’t want the bread?” Rolling his eyes, Nathanos aimed the bread at his cousin in a gentle underhand toss. “What about Scrip?”

“Spices aren’t good for dogs. I’ll buy him some meat at the market while I’m out.”

That seemed to satisfy Stephon on account of that topic as he shifted to another one. “Is it safe?”

“Do you think I’d have given it to you if it wasn’t?”

“No. I meant for you.”

Nathanos blinked, unable to fully process the reality of the fact that his cousin was worried for him. “It’s nothing but taste and texture for me. With the changes my curse has wrought there’s only one thing I truly crave. One thing which my body can get any use out of.” He let out a snort. “And it wouldn’t be on a normal person’s menu.” Stephon hid his discomfort admirably well, but Nathanos could read it in his subtle cringe. Not for the first time, he asked “are you afraid of me?”

His cousin looked up at him again, sharply, with defiance in his eyes. Responding to his question with one of his own. “Are you planning on eating me?”

The thought made him gag. “No.”

“There’s your answer. And it’s the answer you’re getting every time you ask, so let’s spare ourselves the trouble.” He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

Perhaps he’d rubbed off on him a bit too much. Perhaps it was merely consequence of this fact he was a teenager. Nathanos narrowed his eyes. “We’re going to remain in Andorhal for the next few days while I get us another horse, procure supplies, and repair my gear. Enjoy sleeping in a real bed while you have the opportunity because the next place you’ll get a chance to will be Menethil Harbor.” He said. “We’ll be living out of provisional camps in the wilderness while we travel through the Hinterlands and Arathi and will need to be particularly mindful of the…natives.”

“Are they not friendly?” Stephon asked.

“Forest Trolls are never friendly. And they’d happily sacrifice a little human boy to their Animal Gods.”

His cousin glared at him. “Now you’re _trying_ to scare me!”

“No.” Nathanos growled. “The only thing I’m_ trying_ to do is ensure you don’t get yourself killed!”

Stephon frowned but seemed to accept him at his word. “Are we really going to Stormwind?”

“I’m taking you to the southern kingdoms, where you’ll be safe, yes.”

“Where are we going to live?”

“_We_ aren’t living anywhere.” Nathanos said. “You will be living in Stormwind. I will be returning to Eastweald and taking the fight to Arthas.”

“You’re going to leave me in an orphanage?” Stephon looked heartbroken. “But I want to stay with you!”

Nathanos forced his gaze to focus on the opposite wall rather than the boy in front of him. “You’re one of the Living, Stephon. You and I are a part of different worlds. I don’t belong in yours. And you don’t belong in mine. There’s nothing I can offer you but misery if you stay with me; not only will you constantly be in danger but the rest of the Living will ostracize you. Brand you as a Necromancer, a Death Cultist, simply for associating with me. A monster.”

“But you’re_ not_ a monster! And no matter what anyone else has to say about the matter I’ll never believe otherwise!”

Nathanos heaved a heavy sigh. “You’ll grow out of it.” Shifting aside the empty tray, he rose to his feet. “I’ll be back around nightfall.”

“Go, then!” With a last resentful glare, Stephon pulled Scrip into his lap and turned his back on him. Pulling the quilt up over his head.

Annoyed by the boy’s behavior and even more annoyed by the sinking feeling he got in response Nathanos repositioned his cloak yet again and swept from the room. Closing the door tightly behind him and stalking down the stairs. The Innkeep was nowhere to be seen. All the better. Nathanos slipped back through the door.

The streets were still just as irritating as before. Gritting his teeth, the Dark Ranger wore his way through the rushing crowd, allowing himself to be led by the rhythmic pinging of a blacksmith’s hammer. The smithy was a squat, rounded stone building, almost like a potter’s kiln, with a single crooked chimney jutting haphazardly from the roof. The orange glow of the forge within flickering through the open door, seemingly in time with the clouds of super-heated air billowing out of it onto the street.

Mounting the stairs Nathanos peered inside, gaze roving over the lit forge and dark anvil with a half-formed sword lying atop it, glowing dragon fire orange with molten heat. Standing at the anvil, clutching a hammer in one hand and with his weathered face covered by a scraggly beard, was, to the Dark Ranger’s surprise, a Dwarf.

Unlike the modern Alliance, the Alliance of Lordaeron hadn’t been particularly kind in the way it had regarded the nonhuman races which were a part of it. Gnome. Dwarf. Elf. Garithos’ temperament had been a good indicator, if a bit more extreme than the standard, of the typical way they were viewed so finding a Dwarven smith in Andorhal was odd.

Dismissing the matter as an irrelevant curiosity, Nathanos raised his voice in a shout to draw the smith’s attention. The hammer pinged once more against the iron anvil as the Dwarf set it aside and looked up.

“Hey there.” Voice gruff and thickly accented. He raised a stubby fingered hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. “What can I do for ya?”

“My gear was damaged recently in the madness going on in Eastweald.” Nathanos said. “Special made in Quel’thalas, in the absence of a Thalassian smith I have to repair it myself but I need a forge to do so.”

“The madness in Eastweald?” the Dwarf repeated, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “Ya a soldier or something?”

Nathanos showed his teeth, more of a threat than a smile. “Something.”

Another grunt before the Dwarf nodded. “Aye. I got another forge I can fire up for ya, if ya have the money to pay for it.”

“Five gold enough?” He pulled the coins from his purse. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“Enough, yeah.” Accepting the coin, the Dwarf turned and started towards the back door of the smithy. “It’s out here. Fenced off from the road so ya won’t be getting stared at or disturbed. Finish what ya need to and then head out when yer done.” Fiddling with the furnace of the forge, the smith got it lit and stepped back. “I’ll leave ya to it and be getting back to my work.”

Nathanos grunted and watched the Dwarf shuffle back inside. Once certain he was alone, he peeled off his chainmail and dismissed the illusion with a wave of his hand. Forest green giving way to ebon black, oiled over with a sheen of blue-gold where it caught the light. Carefully, the Dark Ranger examined the ragged rip in the front of the mail cuirass. Lining them up meticulously, he began the painstaking process of heating the shattered links and pinching them back closed.

The sky had begun to tint violet with evening by the time that he was finished. Pulling the breastplate back over his head and returning the illusion Nathanos made his way back out of the forge and onto the main street. Weaving back through the market towards the inn only to come to an abrupt halt in front of the bakery.

The amount of time he spent standing there, staring at it like a fool, was enough in and of itself to irk him. Never mind the fact he’d soon given in to the compulsion and stepped inside.

The scent of spun confectionary sugar slammed into him like a solid wall and almost turned his stomach. Holding his breath while still trying to appear as if he was breathing, the Dark Ranger swiftly crossed the little room to the glass faced cabinet full of sweets. Cookies of all sorts. Brightly colored taffies. Complex tarts. Nathanos’ eyes finally stopped on a perfect rectangle of layered chocolate cake.

The transaction was swift and, with the outrageously expensive treat boxed and in tow, Nathanos returned to their room at the inn. Unlocking the door and pushing it open. Stephon was still sulking beneath the covers.

Closing the door behind him, the Dark Ranger made his way over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Stephon shifted beneath the covers as his cousin’s weight dipped the mattress; out of the corner of one eye he saw his cousin’s face appear but he didn’t turn to look at him. Opening the box and ‘just happening’ to angle it so that the boy could see what was inside.

“You’re not going to make me eat this, are you?” he asked, watching Stephon reluctantly push the covers back and sit up. Once he had, Nathanos held it out to him. “Olive branch?”

Was bribery with sweets how you were supposed to handle tantrum throwing teenagers?

Wordlessly, the boy accepted the treat but refused to make eye contact.

Nathanos frowned, reaching back to gently push away the hound when Scrip pressed his cold nose into the back of his neck. “I’m only doing what I believe is best for you.”

More silence, but Stephon briefly look at him this time.

“I’ll spend tomorrow looking for a horse, then we’ll gather the necessary supplies and head out. But it’s getting late now.” Nathanos said. “Get some rest.” But when he moved to rise from the bed a small hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. He turned his head. “Need something?”

“If you’re going to leave me when we get to Stormwind then you don’t get to leave me while we’re on our way there.” He said it with all of the demanding sternness he could muster, which really wasn’t all that much.

“If I allow you to develop the habit of sleeping with me what are you going to do when I’m no longer around?”

“I’ll deal with that when I have to.”

It was easier to oblige the boy than to fight him on the matter. At least, that was the reason Nathanos told himself that he had for agreeing. “Fine.” He grunted. “But you have to let me out of my armor.”

Stephon released him only reluctantly, and watched him like a hound might watch a rabbit. As if he expected his cousin to suddenly make a break for the window or the door. Rolling his eyes, Nathanos stripped off his gear, leaving himself in only the leathers beneath. Glancing down at the tear in the middle of the padded chest piece and grumbling under his breath, he mentally added it to his list of things to purchase and tossed it into the corner before making his way back to the bed.

Stephon didn’t waste a moment in pouncing on him, tucking his head against his shoulder and closing his eyes, leaving the Dark Ranger little recourse but to make himself as comfortable as possible in the position that he’d found. Nathanos spent the next few hours staring up into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Procuring a horse had taken the entirety of the next day, much to Nathanos’ displeasure, as it had involved him heading out of the city on foot to a farm nearby where he was forced to haggle with the breeder for upwards of two hours before finally managing to walk away with a painted mare and barely enough coin to cover their remaining expenses. After another night allowing his cousin to cling to him as he slept the Dark Ranger had taken the rest of their money to market.

After securing enough dried rations to keep his cousin alive between kills and sources of water Nathanos stopped in at a leatherworker’s and a bowyer’s for a new jerkin and more arrows-he preferred to make his own to his own specifications but there simply wasn’t time for that now-before returning to the inn, paying the last bit of their fare and collecting his cousin.

Stephon was quiet, movements stiff with reluctance and carrying Scrip in his thin arms, as he followed Nathanos over to where their new horse was tied. Allowing himself to be lifted up onto the saddle, between where their supplies had been strapped and where Nathanos sat once he’d swung himself up as well. His displeasure broadcast only by the slight downturn of his pale lips into a frown.

“We’ll head up into the Hinter Pass; we’ll get as far as we can and then make camp at sunset.” He said. “If you need to relieve yourself, do it now. We won’t be making any stops until then, barring unforeseen…complications.”

Stephon shook his head, returning to his former position with his forehead propped against his back and his arms around his middle. Nathanos made an exasperated noise and turned back to face the front. Prodding the mare forward into a steady trot, pushing its pace to a full gallop once they’d cleared the city’s crowded streets and escaped out onto the main road. Crossing over the bridge, arched into place over the narrow tributary feeding into Lake Darrow from the south west and charting a path south south-east towards the spine of mountains which rose up from out of the vibrant forest. The wind hissed through the branches above them. The sun beat down on their backs. Aside from one incident in which Scrip attempted to leap from the saddle after some small animal or another which he’d spotted darting away into the undergrowth, barking up a storm, the day slipped by without much excitement. The land slopped upwards. Almost imperceptibly at first, then more and more noticeably as they advanced further into the foothills and then the mountains beyond.

Nathanos pushed the horse higher and higher into the mountains as the light died, the tension in his frame unwinding a measure for every step they took away from the rapidly widening reach of the Lich King and his damnable Champion, until it was nearly pitch black and pressing any further would have risked the horse breaking a leg.

Guiding the animal over to a flat swath of land where the path leveled out, just prior to swinging west and downwards, Nathanos dismounted and tied the reins to a scraggly crop of brush. Turning and helping Stephon and Scrip down before digging through their supplies for the necessary materials for starting a fire.

“Careful wandering around out here.” Nathanos grunted, assembling the smaller twigs into a tent like structure above the leaf litter he’d scraped up from the ground and kindling. “The edges of the cliff face can be unstable, it’s difficult for the Living’s poor eyesight to make out where earth becomes air in this darkness and that drops straight down for a good distance.”

Flight was something which he’d seen Sylvanas do, though whether that was a part of her deal, let alone among the kit of powers he’d inherited, Nathanos didn’t know and he didn’t particularly fancy the idea of having a trial by fire on the matter. Certainly not if it involved spontaneous cliff diving after his cousin and their hound.

“I’ll be careful.” Stephon mumbled his promise as he turned away but kept his word and didn’t move further. Looking out over the land below towards Eastweald, or what remained of it: points of fire stood out like miniature suns against the encroach of night, but from this distance it was impossible to tell whether they were burning structures or burning corpses piled one atop the other into mass graves.

“Come away from there.” He didn’t know where it was that the nettling paternal notions were dredging themselves up from, why the want to shield the boy from the harsh truth he’d have thought nothing of forcing anyone else to face as they willed, was so strong but he bent to it. As, a highly annoyed portion of his awareness pointed out with a sneer, he seemed to to everything when it came to Stephon.

So much for finding that ‘will’.

Discarding the notion for later concern, Nathanos prodded the small flame he’d started higher. Feeding it sticks which grew progressively in size with one hand and watching his cousin as he did so to ensure that he did as he’d bid. Sure enough, Stephon shuffled over and sat beside him. Pressing once again into his side. Still giving him what all but amounted to the silent treatment but not allowing his anger to squander any of their remaining time in a display of self-compromise which was, frankly, unnervingly mature.

“Eat,” Nathanos said, pushing a hunk of bread into his cousin’s hand, “drink,” the canteen of water clanked as it was set near his foot “and then get some sleep. We set off at dawn.”

Stephon took the bread and the canteen and settled in for his food. Staring at the fire as he ate. Nathanos watched him almost mechanically chew and swallow while he fed the hound strips of salted venison out of his hand. Finishing off the bread and drinking his fill of the water, Stephon carefully stoppered the canteen and then curled closer against him and closed his eyes. His breathing evening out a few moments later as he dropped off into sleep.

Nathanos couldn’t help but think that, even asleep, the boy looked unhappy.

Sighing, the Dark Ranger gently removed his cousin from his person and laid him, carefully, on the ground beside the fire. Clicking his tongue to call the hound over, he directed Scrip to curl at Stephon’s other side, then reached for the antler clasp at the hollow of his throat. Removing his cloak and draping it over the teen’s thin shoulders to fight off the chill which had arrived with the night. The thick fabric, he knew, would soon absorb the heat from his body and do far more to keep him warm than curling against an animated corpse ever would.

Shifting until he’d arranged himself into a comfortable position Nathanos propped his back against the uneven contours of a boulder and rested his bow against his knee, prepared to respond with force to anything that moved and got too close. His mind beginning to wander, though still his focus remained, as he slipped into the near trance of a predator lying in ambush.

He had a number of days more before the Scourge would reach the first Elf Gate. A few days after that before Dra’thir’s betrayal would grant the Death Knight access to the High Home of the Elves. Until Sylvanas would fall in the doomed effort to keep the dead from overrunning Silvermoon.

From there it would be weeks and months before his Queen broke free, ousted Kel’thuzad from the ruins of Lordaeron and double-crossed Garithos and his men with the help of Varimathras. Years before the day would come that she’d sought him out and freed him, in the other Azeroth.

Plenty of time for him to escort Stephon to Stormwind and make it back to the Plaguelands. Explore and exercise his powers until he’d honed them into another weapon over which he wielded absolute control. Begin working to achieve and expedite his Queen’s mission: to wrench the thralls of the Lich King from his weakening grasp, begin building the Forsaken as a separate people with their own identity and pride in their curse as a strength instead of a source of the shame which had crippled him, to systematically seek out and destroy any Scourge holdouts that still clung to the outskirts of their lands.

But that wasn’t where his plans ended.

Regrettably, the Forsaken, just like last time, would require the aid and backing of a larger Faction if they were going to survive. At least at first. Attempting to deal with the Alliance was pointless, Nathanos knew, so this time they’d go straight to the Horde. And, if he had his way and everything spun on the access of a prompt time table, they could catch the Orcs at their weakest: while they struggled to find a means of escaping the Eastern Kingdoms. Leverage their desperation and their mutual want for their right to exist in that world to be recognized to ingratiate themselves with Thrall as invaluable allies and a founding pillar of the Horde. Granting them far more impunity to act as they saw fit than they’d ever had as the pitied but mistrusted outcasts they’d been the first time around.

And once the Horde had served its use to them, the infrastructure to take them over from within would already be in place. This time, Nathanos was determined, Azeroth would belong to the Forsaken! And the notion of the Living would be little more than a memory.

…Except for Stephon.

Maybe this plan required further tweaking after all.

Nathanos frowned and turned his head, watching the distant fires burn until the dawn returned to lighten the sky. Rising from where he’d spent the night reclined, stretching until he heard his joints give way with a pop, the Dark Ranger gently roused the sleeping boy.

Stephon, looking exhausted and rather displeased at being poked awake when it was still dark out for all intents and purposes, blinked at him with a similar demeanor to a concussed murloc and pushed himself up onto his knees. Nathanos’ cloak crumpling around him. His attempt to speak produced a rather undignified groan.

“Breakfast.” Was his older cousin’s reply, more bread and a small apple finding their way into Stephon’s hands. “We’re setting off in ten minutes. Handle what you need to before then.”

The Dark Ranger turned his attention to putting out the fire, allowing his younger cousin to go about the business that he needed to as he did so, and untied the horses. Obediently, leading the dog by the leash, Stephon came when his cousin called and they resumed their travels. Continuing onwards along the bend in the path and starting down the mountains on the other side. The land evening out by the same degrees which it had risen, first to foothills and then to flat ground.

The trees here weren’t as closely grown as they had been in their homeland, leaving the grass to grow considerably higher around the bases of towering silver firs. Wolves prowled about through the dappled shadows, raising their heads as they passed before melting back into the gloom without a sound. A tawny griffin swooped low over the tree tops, shrieking loudly before rising higher into the low-lying bank of clouds. Whether or not the half-avian freak was wild or a Wildhammer beast Nathanos couldn’t tell from the quick glance he’d caught.

He had better things to concern himself with anyway. The hairs on his neck rising at the persistent gaze of lurking eyes. Turning off the main trail with an abrupt suddenness the Dark Ranger took off at a full gallop. Weaving, apparently directionless, between the trees, headed deeper into the forest.

“Nathanos!” Stephon yelped, taken by surprise with the spontaneous detour. “What-?”

“_Quiet!”_ Nathanos snapped, urging the animal yet faster. Straining his ears in an effort to catch the two-toed footfalls over the thud of hooves on loamy soil. “We’re being pursued! I’m trying to shake them!”

Whipping around a bend, the Dark Ranger yanked on the horse’s reins and forced the beast to leap a steep ravine. Fallen leaves churned up a cloud behind them. Small stones and fallen debris scattered before them. Finally, he pulled the mare to a stop outside the gaping maw of a cave.

Leaping from the saddle, Nathanos ripped Scrip and Stephon from the horse’s back and bolted inside. All but cramming the boy into a crevice in the rocks. “Inside! Now! We’ve lost them for the time being but they could catch up at any moment and I don’t want them seeing where I’ve put you!” Nathanos barked. “I’m going to deal with them and then return to collect you.”

“W-What about Scrip?” Stephon’s eyes were round as coins. His face white with fear.

“He’s coming with me.”

“But-!”

“Listen to me, Stephon, there’s nothing that will protect you more in this than complete and utter _silence._” Nathanos said. “They can’t hurt you if they don’t know where you are. Not that I’d ever allow them to make it passed me to do so in the first place. Are you listening?” A frightened nod. “Good. Stay completely still. Stay completely silent. Do. Not. Move. Until I come back to get you. Am I understood?”

“Don’t leave me here for too long.” The boy squeaked. “Please. I’m scared.”

“You’re going to be fine.” He growled. _And if you’re not, then there’ll be hell to pay!_ Seizing his bow in one hand and the lead in the other Nathanos rushed back to the horse and swung up into the saddle. Directing the hound to follow, the Dark Ranger prodded the mare forward back the way they’d come. Scrip barking and yapping all the while. Nathanos’ eyes scanned the ground and surrounding forest for signs of their pursuers before catching sight of something. Dismounting after the horse had slowed enough to do so and crouching down to get a better look.

A footprint. Undeniably of Troll origin, as evidenced by the prominence of two toes. And fresh. Conveniently so. As if one Troll had broken from the hunting party in an effort to distract him. Make him think he was the lion when, really, he was the sheep dog being led from the lamb.

He’d thought he’d shaken them, but if he was wrong…

Nathanos took a running leap back into the saddle and spun the horse around. Tearing back through the trees with the hound on his heels and all but ramming the charging animal into the mouth of the cavern in his haste.

“_Stephon!_” No answer. No movement. Nothing. Rounding the side of the large boulder which had blocked the crevice where he’d hidden the boy from sight from outside, he was confronted with an empty void. Narrow scratch marks had been left in the buildup of moss and soot on the weeping walls, as if he’d made a failed struggle to remain in his hiding place but something stronger had pulled him free. _“**Damn it!”**_ He snarled. Furious that he could have ever been so stupid as to fall for such an obvious trap; at himself on account of the vivid terror which flooded his body and drowned his mind at the prospect of his cousin at the mercy of the Witherbark.

He had to save him. He had no choice. Had to get to Jintha’alor, to the ‘holy site’ that it contained, as quickly as he could. The Trolls that had his cousin, for all Nathanos knew, had returned to the temple complex through hearth-magic now that they’d successfully captured their victim and by the time he made it there it might already be too late.

He’d tear the place apart if that was what it took to save him. And if he was too late? He’d feed every last Witherbark Troll he found to the Maw and leave their worthless corpses to rot!

The horse’s hooves thundered against the ground. Scrip growled, curling further back against him in the saddle. Finding his way back to the main road, Nathanos took it another few hundred yards further before veering off into the forest again. Tearing free of the trees and out across the open expanse of grassland towards the lowest level of Jintha’alor.

Like most Troll settlements, the place wasn’t much more than a ruin. The damnable creatures clinging, desperately, to the remnants of their supposed greatness. A greatness Nathanos, having seen Dazar’alor, found himself far from impressed by.

The Witherbark didn’t take his intrusion kindly, not that he’d expected them to. The first of the Forest Trolls popped up in front of him, covered in pale green fur and with a spear in hand. Scrip pounced on it with a snarl; for all his lacking vision the hound still maintained his jaws around the shaft of the weapon. Biting down until wood splintered. Nathanos took advantage of the distraction and swung, separating the monster’s head from its body with a single powerful blow.

The sight and scent of blood incited the beast within him, but as much as doing so would have satisfied his curse’s destructive cravings Nathanos knew he didn’t have time to hack and slash at every Troll that tried to block his path if he wanted to get to his cousin in time.

The Maw purred as it curled around his mind, as if summoned to the fore by the mere notion that it might be used. Distantly, Nathanos was aware that using something so profoundly dark so often was dangerous. He’d seen what it had done to his Queen. But there was no room, now, for caution; ignoring his misgivings and whistling to the hound, Nathanos pulled up the door of the power’s cage and let it free.

A sense of the same pleasure he’d once gained, while alive, from stretching stiff muscles flooded over him as the power was released. Allowed to run rampant and undirected. Striking at everything that so much as dared to attempt to move. Glutting itself on the Witherbark, growing darker as it did so, more and more solid. The notion that it might, likewise, be becoming harder to contain rolled off his back like rain water.

Hoisting Scrip with him, Nathanos pulled himself up over the crumbling wall which was all that stood between him and the final terrace of the temple complex. A stone amphitheater dropped away from him, and at the bottom…

“_No!”_ Vision tinting scarlet, Nathanos leapt from the top of the amphitheater. Landing in a crouch at the bottom, almost toppling on the uneven ground, and firing a Dark Arrow into the chitinous hide of the wyrm-sized spider which loomed above his cousin’s form. Shadra let out a high-pitched hiss and spun to face him, her eight red eyes focusing on his advancing shape. On the gaping darkness behind him, reared up like a hooded cobra. Repelled, either by the presence of undeath or the hungering Maw he wielded, the Spider Loa turned and rapidly skittered away, vanishing deeper into the ruins.

The Maw snarled for pursuit but Nathanos ignored it, slinging his bow back over his shoulders and running to where the boy had fallen. Stephon was curled pitifully on the broken stones, his clothing stained red by the two deep punctures in his chest.

His skin had begun tinting an unhealthy shade of grey. His breathing was weak. He didn’t respond, didn’t move, when Nathanos pulled him into his lap. “Stephon!” He knew, well enough, how potent the Spider Loa’s venom was. The Royal Apothecary Society had experimented with it in a great deal of depth. Had this been the Azeroth he’d come from, he could have taken his cousin to them. But now? He wasn’t an alchemist. Nathanos knew how to use poisons as a weapon but not how to cure them. And undeath had robbed him of the nature magic he may have been able to use to keep the boy alive for long enough to make it to a healer. “Stephon!”

“It be pointless, man-thing.” Hissing, Nathanos spun around to glare at the source of the scratchy voice. A Troll woman, dressed in the gilded garb of a Loa Priest, stood not far away. Watching him. “It be no matta that Shadra retreated. Tha Queen of Venom have no need for tha boy’s husk. Tha poison already be leechin his soul away; tha sacrifice be going through.”

His cousin, cold and unresponsive in his arms. The guilt that his own stupidity had gotten Stephon into this mess when he was trying to prevent his death as it had happened before. The already barely contained rage, stoked higher by the Troll’s words and the Maw’s honeyed whispers. All it took was a passing thought of the woman’s death for the power to lunge. The Troll collapsing with a hoarse shriek.

Nathanos released his grip on the power, then, expecting it to disappear but the Maw wasn’t done. Curling around, it approached him. Seemingly fixated on the dying child that he held.

“No!” He snarled at it. Bared his teeth. Swiped with the talons on his gauntlets but the blow passed through it. The dark mass, glittering now with faint threads of something bluish-silver, continued. Unfazed. Ignoring even his mental efforts to drag it back into its prison. “No! Not him! Stay _away_ from him!”

But there was nothing he could do but watch as the living haze settled itself over Stephon’s smaller body. Obscuring him from view. Clinging to his thin frame in spite of Nathanos’ attempts to pull him away. When it finally disappeared back into its prison, the vanishing dark revealed that his cousin’s eyes, though still unfocused, had opened. He was still shaking violently and bleeding badly but his breathing had eased.

Momentarily dumbstruck, Nathanos pushed the shock of the unexpected result of the inscrutable force’s actions and pulled his cloak from his shoulders again. Wrapping it around the boy and lifting him into his arms. “Stay awake.” He hefted his body into his arms and called for the dog to follow. “I’m getting you to a healer!”

Stephon’s effort to speak produced a faint groan. He blinked blearily, struggling to keep his eyes open. Settling the teen against him in the saddle and ensuring Scrip was following behind, the Dark Ranger urged his horse into a gallop and headed north.


	5. Chapter 5

A tense hour of riding saw them almost back to the mountain pass they’d descended that morning. The wooden terraces of the Quel’lithian Lodge were visible over the tops of the dark green trees. Taking the little path which led up and away towards the entrance of the lodge at a full gallop, Nathanos blew passed the two Rangers standing guard-paying no mind to their shouts of alarm-and up to the door. Leaping the back of the horse, he ran inside at full speed and almost trampled another Elf but the near rabid expression on his face kept them from complaining.

“_Get a healer**!”**_ He bellowed, drawing the dumbstruck gazes of those few who weren’t already staring. “**_Now_!”**

The thunderous roar successfully shook them from their stupor, a flurry of hissed Thalassian flying through the room as one of the bravest Elves-a Warrior, by the look of him, with his long black hair bunched at the top of his head-stepped forward.

“I must admit, Ranger Lord, that you’ve taken us quite by surprise.” He said. “Come. Let’s take the boy to a room. Sunspire will be along to treat him in a moment.”

Nathanos didn’t much like the insinuation of his tone but let it slide, this time. Following the Elf up a nearby flight of stairs and into a room.

Carefully, mindful not to jostle him too much, he lay Stephon on top of the bed and gently unwrapped the cloak that had been wound around him. Scrip whined softly as he approached the bed and rested his head on the corner.

“What are you doing standing there, staring like an idiot?” Nathanos snarled, rounding on the other man again. “Get the healer! He’s dying!”

“’The healer’ is already here.” Another Elf pushed open the door without knocking. Her long auburn hair falling loose about her shoulders. “Ranger Lord.”

“Save the introductions!” Nathanos snapped. “Help him!”

The High Elven Priestess blinked but didn’t speak on the matter. Stepping passed him, business like, and walking up to the bed.

“Handsome child.” She said, pushing his bangs away from where sweat had plastered them to his forehead. “Is he yours?”

Nathanos sat down heavily in his chair. “He may as well be.”

“His name?”

“Stephon.”

“Hello, Stephon. Can you hear me? Are you able to say something?” Another thin groan. “Alright, good. I’m going to examine you to try and find out what’s wrong. If anything I do hurts you, make a sound to let me know alright?” she turned to Nathanos. “Tell me what happened.”

“The Witherbark happened.” Nathanos spat. “They tried to feed him to their Spider God.”

“And he was bitten.” The woman nodded grimly. “Do you have a knife on you, Ranger Lord? I’m going to have to cut away his shirt to get at the injury before I can do anything else.” Nathanos reached down into his boot and pulled a dagger free. The wickedly curved blade glinting in the light which spilled in from the window. The Elf took it from him. “Thank you.”

The dagger slit through the rough fabric of his cousin’s ruined jerkin. The healer pushed the fabric aside, revealing the angry red wounds punched into the boy’s heaving chest. Nathanos bit down on the defensive snarl which boiled up inside him.

“Clean punctures.” She gently prodded the area. A clear, orange fluid bubbling up from it. “Massive spider, massive dose. Blazefury!”

“You need me to grab something for you?” the Warrior asked.

“My box of herbs. And clean cloth. A pot of boiled water as well.” She said, never taking her eyes off the wound. “The bleeding is far from insignificant but my bigger concern is helping his body fight what venom it has absorbed and stopping it form absorbing anymore. I can’t close the wound until all of this has been removed or he’ll certainly die.”

“Of course. Just a moment.” The Warrior left the room quickly and was gone for a few minutes. Returning with a silver tray weighed down with white cloth and a tea pot full of hot water in his hands, and a wooden box, presumably full of herbs, under his arm. “Where would you like me to put these?”

“The box next to me. The tray on the table. Bring the cloth here.” The Warrior did as she ordered, setting the tray on the table and the box on the floor before walking to the bedside with the pile of cloth. “Lord Marris, if you could assist as well?”

Nathanos looked over. “What do you need?”

“Take that cloth and apply pressure to the wound. Not only will it stem the bleeding, it’ll sop up the excess venom as well.” Worldlessly, the Dark Ranger got to his feet and crossed to the bedside. Taking the clean cloth that he was handed and folding it over itself a few times before pressing it against the wounds. Wincing when Stephon let out a sound which was obviously pained. “Keep a firm hold but don’t bare down with too much of your weight. We don’t want to risk breaking his ribs.”

Nathanos grunted but held his tongue. Watching with hawkish eyes as she bent to open the box of herbs. Selecting a handful of sprigs, leaves and blossoms from inside, she packed them into the bottom of the cup on the tray and pouring the hot water over them. Allowing it to stew for a moment before returning to the bedside.

“Stephon, I need you to drink this. It will break down the venom and allow your body to expel it naturally. Alright?” Tired eyes made a failed attempt to focus, but no attempt to answer was made. “Lord Marris, if you could allow Blazefury to replace you in holding that cloth down, I require some assistance in sitting him up.”

Pausing only long enough to fix the warrior in a threatening glare, Nathanos allowed the man to take his place applying firm pressure and moved to the head of the bed. Gently slipping one arm beneath his upper back and pulling the boy upright, using his hand to support the back of his head.

The healer nodded in approval and pressed the rim of the cup lightly against Stephon’s lips. Tilting it towards him so that the hot liquid-pale green and sharply medicinal-trickled into his mouth. Whether out of obedience to her orders or some instinct to prevent drowning he swallowed it all without complaint.

Most likely because he lacked the energy, at current, to do so.

“There we go.” She said softly, setting the cup aside and motioning for Nathanos to lower him back to the pillows. “You’re doing very well. We’re almost done, now. A few more minutes and I’ll be able to let you sleep safely.” Returning her attention to the other Elf, who by now was down to the last piece of clean cloth, the rest piled haphazardly beside him soiled with red blood and orange venom. “Remove the cloth, please.” The Warrior did so. The woman looked over the wound again and nodded, seeming satisfied. “Alright, good. We can seal it up now.”

Aware of what was about to happen, Nathanos discretely retreated until his back was flush against the wall. But he knew that that distance still wouldn’t be enough to prevent the coming discomfort.

The Priestess called on the Light, then, and her eyes and hands lit up a blinding gold. The Dark Ranger locking his jaw and clenching his fists at the small of his back, pain blazing across his skin as if he’d just vigorously grabbed a hot poker. Watching her set her hands against the open wound, softly singing hymns, and keep them there until the torn flesh had knit itself back together and left behind a scar-slightly raised and glinting silver.

When she released the Holy magic after what seemed a small eternity Nathanos almost sagged in relief.

“Thank you, Blazefury, for your assistance. You can return to your business now.” She said. “Lord Marris, if I might speak with you a moment before I leave the two of you your privacy?”

“Don’t make this too long.” Nathanos said as the door of the room swung shut behind the other Elf. “Stephon needs his rest. I don’t want conversation disturbing him.”

“Of course.” she said. “He’ll make a full recovery and won’t require further treatment but it will take a few days before he fully regains his strength. I’d prescribe rest, until then, so it’s best that you delay your travels.”

“Noted.” He grunted. “Is that all?”

“About the boy, yes.” The Healer told him. “But I do have something to say about you.”

“What of me?”

“I know what you are, Ranger Lord.” Nathanos stiffened. “How I know is of no concern. I suspected when I entered but it wasn’t until I called on the Light and you retreated like a plant from an open flame that I knew for certain what you were. I don’t know why it is that you’re acting the same, as least according to what I’ve heard of you, as you did when you lived. I don’t know why you’re traveling with and protecting this boy. I don’t care. But you and the taint you carry aren’t welcome here. Once he’s strong enough to travel, leave.”

The Dark Ranger tilted his head. “And if I’d rather take my time?”

“I will out you. Am I understood, beast?”

“Bold of you to threaten me. I’m not the mindless sort of undead that you may be used to. Not some match stick skeleton or rotting ghoul. And I don’t take ultimatum’s well.” Nathanos growled. “However, I don’t have the time to spare to linger here or anywhere. I’ve business to attend to after taking the boy to Stormwind.”

“So long as your ‘business’ is conducted far from here I’ve no care for what you do.” She said. “I’ll have food sent up for him in the morning, if he wakes, and for the hound regardless. The horse that you rode in on, likewise, will be seen to. Don’t wander, Marris, while you’re here. I’m watching you.”

Nathanos sneered. “While we’re alone, refer to me as Blightcaller.” He said. “I’d prefer not to be dead named.”

The healer made a noise of disgust and whirled out of the room. With a last derisive snort, the Dark Ranger returned to his seat at his cousin’s bedside. Carefully curling his fingers around the boy’s small, cold hand. Rubbing circles into the pale skin with his thumb. Scrip whimpered again, his nails clicking against the wooden floor, and set his head in Nathanos’ lap.

“He’s going to be fine.” He said, though whether it was an effort to convince the hound or himself he didn’t know. Together, they sat up late into the night, watching him breathe.

The next day had passed without any changes. Stephon slept onward with no sign of waking, though he’d regained a healthier coloring much to Nathanos’ relief. The healer came in periodically to check on the boy and bring Scrip a bowl of water and a cut of meat, once in the morning and once in the evening. The Dark Ranger left the room only rarely, and only to allow the hound to take care of his business outside, and spent most of his time posted at Stephon’s bedside. Staring at his cousin and waiting for him to open his eyes.

After a long day and an even longer night Nathanos had been unable to take it anymore but hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave the boy’s side. Not while they were still in Troll territory. Not when they could come and steal him away again. So, he’d compromised with his sudden surge of cabin fever and flitted to the open window. Staring out into the greying dark. Scrip was curled up asleep at the foot of the bed. The only sound for hours, now, had been quiet breathing but it was suddenly broken by a soft groan and the shift of sheets.

“Nathanos?”

The Dark Ranger whipped around immediately to see Stephon finally awake. Struggling to sit more upright than the pillows would allow. Nathanos swept across the room and over to the bed, resting a hand against the startled boy’s forehead to check for remaining signs of venom fever and then gently pushing him back down.

“Don’t strain yourself.” He said gruffly, prompting the boy to roll his eyes. Something Nathanos took as a good sign. “Are you hungry? Can you eat?”

“Yes.” Stephon said. “And…I’m not sure. I think so.”

Retrieving the tray of clear broth which had been left for him earlier in the night, he set it across his cousin’s lap. “Eat as much as you can. If you keep it down until the healer returns, I’ll see about them bringing something a bit more substantial.” Nathanos wasn’t consciously aware of matters, but his arm and hand-seeming to act of their own accord-had picked up the spoon lying on the tray and mechanically begun attempting to feed the boy like a young child. Something that his cousin bore with an exasperated grace until he noticed and stopped himself. Allowing Stephon to take the spoon. “How are you feeling?”

Stephon mulled the question over a moment before settling on “like I’ll never look at spiders the same way again.”

Maybe for the best. “I meant physically.”

“Light headed. Tired.” He said. “It hurts a little when I breathe.”

“Bruising.” Nathanos told him, hesitating a moment before carding his fingers through the boy’s chocolate curls. “It will fade with time. The healer says you’ll regain your strength in a few more days.”

“We’ll leave then?”

The Dark Ranger nodded. “And we’ll be out of the Hinterlands and across Arathi in three more after that. And you know what that means?”

“No more Trolls?” Stephon peered up at him through his fringe.

“No more Trolls.” He confirmed, his chair creaking as he sat back. “Music to my ears.”

The boy shoved another spoonful of by now lukewarm broth into his mouth. “Where are we?”

“Quel’lithian Lodge.” He said. “A High Elven outpost. It was the nearest place I trusted to get you help.”

“What about the Wildhammer?” Stephon asked. “They live around here too, don’t they?”

Nathanos sneered. “Dwarves!” He spat. “Their idea of treatment would have been a bloody pint of ale!” His cousin snickered. “Forgiven me, have you?”

Stephon pulled up short and blinked at him in confusion. “What?”

“You’re talking again.”

The boy’s gaze flickered away to the sheets, to the cloak which he was still wrapped up in, almost as if he were ashamed. “I don’t remember much of what happened after I got bitten, but…I heard you. Calling for me. You sounded scared. I guess it made me realize this isn’t easy for you either.”

“No.” Nathanos said simply. “It isn’t.”

“Thanks.” He said softly. The bowl in front of him was empty now. Stephon traced the edge of the spoon around and around. “For saving me.”

The Dark Ranger eyed him for a moment. “We’re family.” He said. “Whenever I’m able to protect you I will.” That, he thought, was more than enough mushiness for a lifetime so when they boy raised his arms as if inviting a hug Nathanos didn’t move. “I think that’s unnecessary.”

Stephon snickered and fell silent. His brown eyes dropping to the tray in his lap again before he picked up the glass of water beside the empty bowl and sipped from it. “What happened last time?”

The Dark Ranger blinked. “What do you mean?”

“With me?”

A cold swooping sensation overcame him, then. Nathanos shifted in his seat and sighed. “You died.” He said. “You were…murdered. It was a death which you didn’t deserve and which I should have prevented.” That he hadn’t went unsaid, but none the less it hung between them like smoke.

“I forgive you.” Nathanos jerked in alarm and stared at him. Wide eyed. Uncertain he’d heard him correctly. Stephon, despite the circles under his eyes, looked somber and serious. “It’s obvious you regret it from the way you talk about it. And like you said, we’re family. Family protects its own. But it also forgives its own.” With all the gravity that an exhausted child could muster he extended a hand towards him. Pinky out. “Not this time?”

A sizeable part of his mind screamed at him that such sentimentality was stupid. That he was making for himself a soft spot which his enemies could use against him. That he’d come here, back to this time, to make a place for his people in this world and that fraternizing with the living, family or not, was antithetical to that. Nathanos ignored that part and, clumsily, unsure, mimicked the motion. Allowing the boy to interlock their fingers. “Not this time.”

A lopsided smile had found itself onto Stephon’s face, now. “That’s a binding promise.” He said. “You can’t break it.”

“You’re still addled.” Nathanos grumbled, crossing his arms. “Save your breath and rest. The healer should be in in another few hours.”

“I don’t think I can sleep anymore.” He said. “Can’t we…take Scrip out or…go look at the stars?”

Nathanos eyed him sideways for a long moment before he finally said. “I don’t want you straining yourself so soon.”

“I won’t strain myself.” The boy said hastily. “I promise. _Please _Nathanos!”

The Dark Ranger sighed, then rose to his feet and held on a hand towards his cousin. “We’re not bringing Scrip.” He said. “I can’t carry both of you on my back. And that’s the only way we’re getting to the roof.”

“The roof?” Stephon tilted his head, wide eyed. A smile pulling at his lips.

“You’re supposed to stay in bed.” Nathanos said, pulling the boy gently upright. Supporting his weight with one arm. “So, we can’t have anyone seeing us, can we?”

“A secret?” to him, Stephon seemed almost unreasonably pleased with the notion.

“Our secret, yes.” Allowing Stephon to prop himself against his side to walk, Nathanos led the boy across the room and over to the open window he’d been standing beside minutes earlier. He crouched there, archer’s talons flat on the floor, to allow Stephon to clamber into place. Feeling small hands grip his shoulders and thin legs wrap around his waist. “Secure?” He saw him nod through the corner of his eye. “Alright, let’s go then.”

Clambering onto the sill, careful not to collide with the wooden frame, Nathanos maneuvered himself until he was gripping the wall and began to clamber up it then pulling himself over the lip of the roof. Letting Stephon down onto the violet tiles before sitting down himself.

The boy wasted no time flopping down onto his back, turning expectant eyes to his cousin a moment later. Nathanos resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stretched himself beside him crossing his chorded arms behind his head.

There were no clouds in the sky that night, and though the near approach of dawn had dimmed the stars they were still there. All of them. Thousands of points of gleaming silver encrusting the arched vault above their heads. Almost the same as what he remembered, but not quite right. Shifted, just slightly aside, from where they should have been. Stephon nestled beside him and pointed at a clump of them at random. “What’s that one?”

“Turalyon’s Hammer.” Nathanos sneered. “People claim he’s a hero, but I know better. I fought against him a few times when he returned from running rampant across the cosmos after the Burning Legion. The Paladin, as most of them are, was a coward and a zealot and, on unfortunate account of Sylvanas’ elder sister Alleria marrying the oaf, family.”

He expected the boy to select another constellation-the Raven or the Bear or the Eye of Dalaran-but, instead, he turned to him and asked “will Sylvanas be ok?”

The Dark Ranger felt something inside him clench. No. She wasn’t going to be ok. None of them were. But that wasn’t something Stephon, still recovering, needed to be bothered with. “The Quel’dorei are protected by powerful magic. Should the Scourge turn their attention to them, they won’t find success. The Elf Gates will hold.”

Stephon didn’t seem to quite believe him, giving Nathanos the gimlet eye for a drawn-out moment before, finally, seeming to accept his words. Pointing again to another clump of stars. “What’s that one?”

They continued like that until the sun had risen fully in the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

_The wan grey light of fresh dawn tinted the world around her in newly minted shades of grey and green. The cerulean and silver plumage of her hawkstrider overcast to an off-violet color as she pushed it well passed its usual speed. The rustling footfalls of its blunted talons reflecting the beat of her racing pulse and frantic breathing. Damn Kael’thas, well and truly! She understood why Nathanos had gone to the over-primped Mage bastard, surely half-blind with panic over the safety of his family after he’d heard what was going on in his homeland to the south of them, rather than waiting for her to return from her assignment to the east of Zul’Aman but he, Prince or no, hadn’t any right to dismiss or grant leave to one of **her** Rangers! Certainly not her direct right hand! It was something that she wouldn’t stand for, and which the royal bastard would be hearing an earful and a half about it in due time. But there was no time for it now! She had to reach him before he went pelting off to what she knew, Nathanos likely expected, and Kael’thas no doubt hoped would be his death. Had to see him again, just once more, before the man she’d fallen for-unwisely, but not something she regretted-was ripped from her life._

_ Her mount whipped around the last bend and, finally, Nathanos’ home-a small wooden hut, built in Human style, nearly a mile outside of Tranquillen where he could raise his hounds in peace and quiet and wasn’t subjected to the constant derision of the other Quel’dorei which had never really lessened since the day he’d first arrived-came into view. His brown horse was already standing outside, reins hanging loose and with a sparse few belongings hastily trussed to the lopsided saddle. Slowing her own mount as she came up on the beast, she leapt down into the dew-wet grass and rushed in through the open door._

_ “Nathanos!”_

_ Her lover and second in command had been halfway through dragging on his gear and nearly leapt out of his skin at the sound of her voice. The leather banding worn beneath his right bracer to shield the delicate bones in his wrist dropping, forgotten, to the sheets as he turned. Brown eyes wide with alarm._

_ “Sylvanas?” he sounded surprised. “You’ve returned.”_

_ “And I heard, not only about the outbreak of the Plague in Eastweald but of the fact that Kael’thas has given you leave.” Her heeled boots clicked against the floor as she walked towards him. “Thank the Light I caught you in time.”_

_ “My Lady,” he sounded contrite and looked uncomfortable, so distracted by the interaction that, almost as if on autopilot, he slid his right bracer over his wrist without the protective leather meant to go beneath, “I-.”_

_ “Don’t apologize to me for this. I know why you went to him and I don’t begrudge you for it.” She said. “I’m aware, after all, of the toll it took on your pride to have to do so.” He grimaced in answer, slinging his forest green cloak around his shoulders and fastening it at the hollow of his throat. “I simply hope you weren’t planning on leaving without saying goodbye to me, Alah’o.”_

_ “Never, Alah’ni.” There was the tension of a drawn bowstring in the low timbre of his voice, but none the less Nathanos stepped forward to close the last distance between them. His powerful arms pulling her into a tight embrace. It would be their last, she knew, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to show her desperation. Measuredly, as if she wasn’t possessed of no other desire but to cling to him and not let go, Sylvanas wrapped her arms around his middle and returned to the embrace. Discreet in her motions as she tucked her head into the side of his neck and inhaled his scent. Earth and forest and starlight, as well as something warm she’d never quite been able to place._

_ They were forced by tradition, and by Nathanos’ already shaky stance within the Farstriders, to confine their relationship to ‘dirty little secret’, an affair to be hidden away as if it were something shameful, to never be allowed free in any form beyond the vicious rumors hissed in the dark corners and back alleys of Murder Row, but here, in his arms, had been the only place she’d truly been able to call home since her brother’s untimely death. The prospect of losing that, of losing him, was as unfathomable as it was unavoidable; a pain Sylvanas wasn’t certain she’d survive._

_ “A final set of orders for you, my dearest Ranger Lord.” She watched him pull back enough to look down at her with expectant, dark brown eyes. “No matter what happens or what you have to do, you find your way back to me.”_

_ “Of course, my Lady Moon.” He said, a smile-faint and almost reluctant-pulling at his bearded face. “Your other order?”_

_ Lambent blue eyes gazed up at him for a moment in silence before she said “kiss me.”_

_ He bent without hesitation and slotted their lips together. Requesting entry with the soft pass of a hot tongue. His movements as practiced and familiar as her own as she allowed it, long fingers sliding up his neck and into his dark hair, slicked back with gel which smelled faintly of midnight jasmine. His own hands, large and calloused, found her hips and pressed her closer; secure against the harsh cut plains of him, the cold form of his armor, as if in fear she’d disappear if he didn’t. The wiry hairs of his beard softly scratching her chin as he broke the kiss, at last, and rested his forehead against hers._

_ “I love you, Sylvanas. I will **always** love you, no matter what.”_

_ Only with her, alone like this, did his gruff demeanor soften enough for him to admit such a thing so freely. Smiling despite herself, Sylvanas gently touched his face. Stroking the curve of his cheekbone with her thumb. “And I you.” She told him. “Safe journeys, my love.”_

He hadn’t lingered long, after that exchange. Driven by the desperate need to protect his family, left defenseless in the heart of all the madness to the south of them. But even still it had only seemed that he’d only managed to drag himself away from her with great reluctance. After a final exchange of promises to meet again which, she knew, rang hollow to them both, he’d swung himself up into the saddle and rode off into the trees. Vanishing, all too quickly, from her sight and from her life.

The only thing she had left of him, now, was the leather band he’d left behind. Slightly too big for her, she’d secured it to her right wrist with the intention to never remove it again. A last memento of the man she loved and all he meant to her that the casual onlooker would see nothing amiss in.

Sylvanas knew that the likelihood she’d hear definitively of what had happened to the man she loved was very low, especially with Terenas’ kingdom in a state of bonified chaos, but she refused to be made into the equivalent of the sailor’s wife who waited, every day, for decades for the return of a man which the sea had swallowed. Nathanos, to her, until proven otherwise, was dead and though she wanted nothing more than to be given even some small measure of time to discreetly mourn Sylvanas had known she wouldn’t get such a thing. Not with the risk, however small, that though the fetid throng of the Scourge would never reach its talons into Silvermoon itself, that one or more of the outer Elf Gates might be breached.

Lor’themar’s appearance at Windrunner Spire, where she’d formerly been paid company only be Nathanos’ favorite Troll hound and her little sister’s looks of pity, only confirmed matters. Dressed as usual in the standard uniform of the Farstriders and with his long platinum hair done back at the top of his head her friend approached her, a gravity on his face she knew immediately had to do with more than pleasantries.

She turned to face him, saying nothing, aware her expression carried the same message her words would have. The other Elf froze, briefly, as if he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, then he saluted her. Not the salute of respect reserved for a superior officer but a gesture of empathy towards the grieving of a fallen soldier. Her eyes narrowed.

“I admit to thinking little of Marris, as many did, but as discrete as the two of you were, I know the truth. If rumors of what’s happening in Lordaeron are true, that was a fate he didn’t deserve. And, regardless, you didn’t deserve to lose him.” His soft voice echoed off the contours of the walls and mingled with the snoring of the mastiff splayed out in the corner. “For all that they might mean, or might not, I offer my condolences.”

All the condolence in the world wouldn’t bring him back to her, but her friend didn’t deserve the fallout from the sudden swell of bitterness which boiled in her chest. Still, her voice came out clipped. “I take it that you’ve come here for more than a mere social visit, Theron.” Sylvanas snapped, turning her head primly to resume staring out the window. “Deliver your report and leave me be. I’d prefer to find what peace I can.”

“No report.” He almost sounded regretful; even without looking at him, Sylvanas could envision the slight cringe in the Ranger’s otherwise stiff posture. “Summons, rather, to Sunfury Spire. King Anastarian has orders for you, personally.”

Sylvanas closed her eyes and sighed before rising to her feet. Her long, spun gold hair falling freely down her back and the blue necklace her elder sister had gifted before running through the Dark Portal after the Human Paladin she’d fallen in love with. Briefly, the Ranger General couldn’t help but reflect on how alike she and ‘Lady Sun’ truly were. An observation swiftly followed by resentful jealousy that Alleria, at least, had been afforded enough of fate’s mercy to die with her love while she had been cursed to survive him.

As would have happened anyway, in the end, Sylvanas knew. The lifespans of Humans and Elves were just too different for anything else. But a natural death from age or illness would have been something she could have foreseen, prepared for and come to terms with. It would have been better than having him so suddenly ripped away. Even a death in battle would, at least, have left her with a body and a grave.

“I’d begun to wonder when I’d get summons of this sort.” She said.

“You were expecting this?” he sounded surprised.

“We trusted magic to defend us before but it failed and our people suffered greatly for it. Belore’s grace that they’ve taken enough of a lesson from that hubris not to repeat it entirely.”

“Just mostly.” Lor’themar’s tone was grim. “You and I both know they’ll only send a token force. Expecting the Inner Gate, at least, will hold.”

“A token force more than was sent last time.” Sylvanas said, whistling sharply to summon the hound to her side. The mastiff jerked awake with a snort, drool dripping from its heavy hanging jowls, then trotted over and nudged at her hand. Lor’themar treated the massive hound to a look of distaste but said nothing. “I’ll head in to Silvermoon to see them now. You’re dismissed.”

“Of course.” With a shallow bow Lor’themar turned and made his exit.

Retrieving her dark blue cloak from the peg on which it hung and securing it around her shoulders, Sylvanas picked up her bow and led the hound out of the Spire and down to the stable house where the hawkstriders were kept. Vereesa’s emerald mount clucked at her, poking its head up over the door of its stall, but Sylvanas ignored it. Retrieving her own and leading it out by the reins, settling herself in the saddle and then starting off towards the capital at a pace she knew the mastiff could keep up with. The houses becoming more and more closely built, and larger, as she drew nearer; small villages becoming lavish manors becoming the bustling gilded streets of the capital of Quel’thalas.

A few people stopped what they were doing to call to her or wave, a small child smiling as they leapt up and down, but Sylvanas ignored them all and continued forward. The hound plodding steadily at her side, as loyal as his fallen master. A fact for which she was grateful.

Sunfury Spire rose high above the surrounding buildings, its sculpted contours blazing gold in the light of the sun. The red carpet stretched across the stone paved ground, beside the rollicking fountain, stained a bloody scarlet, was flanked by sets of guards baring pikes and shields.

Dismounting her hawkstrider at the foot of the stairs, dropping her hand briefly to the mastiff’s giant head, the Ranger General strode forward up the stairs, paying no mind to the many guards, and in through the door.

The room beyond was dim, lit by a handful of floating lamps of blown glass which hovered at various points around the room and furnished in sumptuous pillows and diaphanous curtains of glowing blue. Off to one side, Kael’thas lurked against the wall, his face pulled down into a disgusted sneer at the sight of the hound currently dribbling a puddle of gooey drool into the floor, but Sylvanas ignored him and focused instead on Anastarian.

At 300 years of age, the current King of Silvermoon was old, even for an Elf, and in that moment the lines of worry on his wrinkled face served to display his age quite prominently. As the mastiff lowered itself onto its haunches beside her, Sylvanas afforded her monarch a respectful bow while continuing to pretend the Mage-Prince wasn’t there.

“You called for me, your Majesty?” she asked softly.

“Ranger General, it’s good that you’ve arrived so quickly.” Anastarian said. “Given Ranger Lord Marris’ sudden leave I’m certain you’re aware of the destruction going on in the Human kingdom as we speak?”

Sylvanas had to physically suppress a grimace as a jolt of pain shot through her. “I’m aware, yes.”

“I fear that this ‘Scourge’ and the Death Knight Prince who leads their destructive march may soon find their eyes set upon the powers of the Sunwell. They wouldn’t be the first evil to seek access to so powerful a source of magic.” Anastarian said. “They must not be allowed it.”

“Father,” Kael’thas cut in, no doubt fed up with being ignored, but Sylvanas still refused to look at him, “surely it’s foolishness to think they’d ever stand a chance at doing so. The outer gate might fall, yes, but without the Key of Three Moons that coward Arthas will never reach Silvermoon, let alone Quel’danas.”

“And what of our people who lay in their cross fires should that occur, Kael?” his father snapped. “We must learn from our mistakes, not repeat them out of pride and ignorance!”

“Of course, father.” The Prince fell silent again after that, though he didn’t look happy about it.

“Lady Windrunner,” Anastarian returned his attention to her, “as the Ranger General of Silvermoon the Farstriders are at your command. I’m entrusting to you the task of keeping the undead at bay, if you are able, and defending the civilians as they retreat if you are not. Do you accept this assignment?”

Sylvanas nodded, a long lock of gilt hair spilling haphazardly over her shoulder with the motion. The dog beside her snorted and the Prince’s disgust intensified. “Of course, your Majesty.” She said. “With your leave, I’ll gather my remaining Rangers and head south to the first Elf Gate tonight.”

“Leave granted.” Anastarian offered her a tense smile which tugged his lips into an unnatural rictus and didn’t reach his eyes. “Belore watch over you, and over your men.”

Belore had done nothing for the man that she loved, so Sylvanas would have to be forgiven for the fact that she didn’t expect all that much to come from such ‘watch’. Still, she forced a smile of her own and nodded. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

It was a relief to be out in the open air again. The walls and ceiling of the Spire having seemed to suddenly become claustrophobic in a way which she couldn’t explain. Unbidden, Sylvanas’ fingers fell to the leather around her wrist. Worrying a shiny bald spot into the dark brown material. The hound, as if sensing her discomfort, stepped up to fill the duty Nathanos might otherwise have and leaned its not insubstantial weight against her with another grumble. The solidity of its presence there doing wonders to ground her back in the present. In reality.

Her love, her friend, her most trusted lieutenant, was gone and he was never coming back. But she was the Ranger General of Silvermoon. The Leader of the Farstriders. As such, she had no option but to move on, to move forward, without him.

“Come.” She said to the hound, stern but not sharp, and pulled herself up into the saddle. Without reluctance or argument of any sort the hulking animal plodded after her, over to the narrow spire just outside the city’s walls where the Farstriders gathered while not on specific assignment. Lor’themar had made it back ahead of her and didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. Something the Ranger General had expected, considering he had been the one who’d delivered Anastarian’s summons in the first place. Wordlessly he approached her as she dropped down from the saddle yet again, eyeing the hound which stared balefully back at him. Gaze bloodshot and droopy. Ears perked and tail raised to half-mast, as if unsure whether it should consider the Elf a threat; no doubt remembering the bad blood between him and Nathanos. Sylvanas had known her friend for long enough to recognize when he was expecting an order.

“Gather all the Rangers who are present here. If any of them have been assigned another task they haven’t left for, inform them they’re to consider themselves dually reassigned.” She told him, voice brokering no argument. “We’re heading south to Dawnspire. Evacuating the civilians behind the Inner Elf Gate and dealing with the Scourge.”

“Of course.” he said, turning to make his way back into the building. “I’ll let them know.”

Dismissing Lor’themar from her attention, Sylvanas turned her gaze to the south. To the Elf Gates. To Lordaeron. Soon, she would face the beasts which had taken her Light from her, and her fingers itched for her bowstring. For the arrows she’d send into every fetid, shambling corpse which dared to set foot on her lands. None of it would be enough. No, not enough, but at least it would be something.

Revenge wouldn’t bring him back to her, wouldn’t even give her a grave that she could go to, but it would quiet a fraction of the outcry for blood which had echoed in her heart since she’d seen Nathanos disappear into the trees. And if that was all that fate would offer her in recompense for what she’d lost, she’d take it.


	7. Chapter 7

Stephon’s recovery under the priestess’ care had been remarkably swift, though the boy had taken a cold turn towards her once he’d learned of her stance towards Nathanos’ condition, and after another two days the woman had sent them on their way, tensely, with a small bundle of herbs for the last few doses of the bitter tea Stephon had been prescribed to keep the residual effects of the venom at bay. Glad to be back out in the open air, Nathanos had kept an unforgiving eye out for any signs of Trolls as they continued on their way across the Hinterlands and, after, the rolling hills of Arathi.

Making provisional camps at sunset every evening. Setting out at dawn every morning. Spending hours and hours of days or hard travel with his cousin and the hound pressed against him. Unflinching. Unbothered, somehow, unfathomably to him, by what he was. It was almost…nice.

Or, at least, it had been until they’d reached the Light forsaken Wetlands. Admittedly, Nathanos had never been to the area before and as such had been unaware of the truth of the hellscape they were walking into. Had expected humidity, a bit of mud and some foul-smelling water. The reality of matters was considerably, _considerably_ worse.

Bloodsucking insects the size of small birds or large rodents buzzed loudly among the reeds, though smearing Scrip and Stephon and what little of the horse remained above water with the swamp muck had seemed to do the trick in keeping them at bay. The mud reached up to his thighs and the water, in places, to his neck and more often than not the Dark Ranger found himself swimming through it rather than walking, having been forced to dismount and drag the horse forward after it had twice become lodged in the mud. What few swaths of land weren’t drowning in the horrific swill were over grown with blade-sharp grass which reached to his mid waist, leaving him more than grateful of the fact that he was covered head to toe in mail.

Needless to say, the entire area was causing Nathanos uncomfortable flashbacks to Nazmir. At least here he didn’t have to worry about loa or crazed blood trolls or undead Devilsaurs or flying spiders the size of a cow. At least here, the crocolisks didn’t seem to have yet developed a taste of reanimated flesh and, as such, his state of undeath served well enough to keep them at bay.

Unfortunately, as they’d had the bad luck of discovering the last time that they’d managed to find themselves on what could pass in the area as solid ground, it didn’t keep away the fucking frog men. A fact which Nathanos had learned when, with a gurgling war cry, one of the bug-eyed beasts-armed with a spear-had leapt from the reeds while they’d been attempting to rest. Followed be another. Followed by another dozen. Before the Dark Ranger could so much as knock an arrow there were so many Murlocs that fighting them off was no longer an option.

Cussing loudly, Nathanos had proceeded to drag the horse the hound and the boy another five miles, pursued by the spear wielding frog men all the while, until the hell beasts had finally given up the chase. The Dark Ranger wasn’t certain that his pride would ever fully recover, and he’d sworn Stephon to secrecy on the matter.

“How much longer?” short hair soaked through with sweat, wilting in the saddle like an unwanted plant, Stephon looked down at where his elder cousin was sloshing through the muck, currently up to his hips, with desperate eyes. “We’ve been able to see the harbor since this morning, but it hasn’t gotten any closer.”

As if to second this, Scrip whimpered.

“It’s impossible to tell without getting somewhere higher.” Nathanos ground out through his gritted teeth. Spitting another mouthful of rancid water out. “But it shouldn’t be much longer, now. Another few miles at most, at least until we reach solid ground again. From there, travel should be faster.”

True enough to his predictions, within another hour the horse was pulling itself back up onto solid ground again. So caked in mud and swamp slime that it looked like a Kelpie from one of the stories told to children to keep them safe in their beds at night. It would need to be cleaned. Light, all of them would, but that could come after they’d made it to the safety of Menethil Harbor. The city was clearly visible to them now, wrought in white stone against the near distance, as was the arch of the bridge which paved the way over the last swath of water which served to bar their way. This time salty from the sea it was fed by and, no doubt, infested with sharks. Or threshers. Or both.

That assumption was confirmed when, as they reached the bridge at last and began to cross it, Nathanos peered briefly down into the water only to catch sight of a dark fin dipping beneath the waves.

Though considered to be one of Lordaeron’s foremost ports, Menethil Harbor, no doubt in no small part due to its proximity to Ironforge and its positioning within the borders of Khaz Modan, was populated mostly by Dwarves though the architecture present there was almost entirely Human. Ignoring the curious looks that he received from people passing by on the streets-visitors here weren’t a rarity, but most of those came on ships, not via wading through the swamp, and for good reason, as he now knew-Nathanos dragged the exhausted horse to the inn and tied it out front. Lifting down first Stephon and then Scrip and leading both tired boy and tired dog inside.

They all looked a horror, the Dark Ranger was well aware, but ultimately that would work to their advantage. He had no money. You could steal food and clothing but not lodging. As such, he’d have to prey on sympathy in order to buoy them until he could find an odd job or twelve and make enough not only to pay for their rooms but for passage, by ship, to Stormwind.

That he’d be looking at two months’ time, at least was a matter Nathanos was trying not to think about.

“Light’s mercy!” The Innkeep, a stout Dwarven woman with red hair done back in twin pigtails, leapt out from behind the desk and rushed towards them. “Tha two of ya must have come from tha north, and been bloody desperate if ya waded through that swamp! Looking for rooms, dears?”

“Just one.” Nathanos didn’t have to put much effort into sounding exhausted; though it wasn’t easy for the undead to tire, the who experience had left him feeling well and truly dazed. “But…I hate to ask this, but would it be possible for us to pay what we owe you when we leave rather than up front? We spent the last of our coin in Andorhal, on supplies for the journey here. I’ll begin looking for work today, but-.”

“Na, na, don’t worry about any of that now.” The Dwarf said. “I’m na hurting for anything here, but the two of ya look like ya’ve lost everything ya had.” She shook her head. “Help me around tha inn while you’re able and we’ll consider matters done and dusted.”

“I’ll help.” Stephon spoke up before Nathanos could speak and the eyes of both adults turned to him. He was clinging to Scrip’s collar and his gaze was fixed on the floor but his expression was set and determined. “Nathanos needs to find pay to get us south, to Stormwind. He won’t have time to do both and still rest. But I won’t really have much to do while we’re here, so I’ll do it. I’ll work for you here to pay for our stay so my cousin can save up for a ship.”

“Stephon.” Nathanos said, crouching to his cousin’s height to look him in the eye. “Are you certain that you’re well enough for that?”

The boy looked drawn, exhausted, but nodded none the less. The determination never leaving his face. “Yes.” He said. “I’ll be ok, Nathanos. I promise I won’t strain myself and that I’ll rest while I’m not working.”

“If you’re certain.” Turning his attention back to the Innkeep as he straightened to his full height, Nathanos said “very well. We accept.”

“We can start tomorrow, sweetheart. Just rest for tha night.” Handing a heavy iron key to Nathanos, she said “I’ll have a meal and some hot water sent up for ya so that ya can clean up.”

“Thank you.” He said gruffly. “Is there water outside which I can use to clean my horse?”

“Of course. Yer welcome to tha water spigot.”

With a last nod in the woman’s direction, the Dark Ranger placed a hand on Stephon’s back and led him up the stairs. In through the door of the proper room.

“I’ll bring up the supplies in a moment.” Nathanos told him. “And then I’ll wash the horse and head out to look for work. Eat and wash up. I’ll be back later.”

“Alright.” The boy said softly. “Be careful.”

“There’s nothing in this swamp which could pose a threat to me.” Closing the door behind him, Nathanos exited the inn again and retrieved what remained of their supplies from the saddle. Depositing them just inside the door where Stephon could easily access what he needed and returning outside. Untying the horse and freeing it from the saddle before leading it over to the mentioned water spigot.

An hour and a half later Nathanos was convinced that he was covered in more mud than he had been when he’d started but the mare, at least, was clean. Shutting the door of the stable out back of the inn, having hung the saddle on the wall and secured the horse into an empty stall, the Dark Ranger cracked his neck and headed off into the streets in search of the notice board he’d seen coming in. Locating it not far from the bridge they’d crossed to enter.

The Murlocs, it seemed, were considerably more than a mere pest in the area. Not surprising given the numbers he’d seen of the things when they’d been ambushed. Removing the bounty poster from where it had been fastened amid the numerous other fliers Nathanos examined it more closely. 1 gold per Murloc, proof of death afforded in the form of their fins. To be delivered to the poster, who went by the name Grimbeard. Yes, this would do fine.

Folding the poster and slipping it into his pack-it wouldn’t do to have competition after all-the Dark Ranger pulled up the hood of his cloak and head back out across the bridge and into the swamp.

Though Murlocs had Steam Runners and Hunters which could range miles inland, they tended to build their primitive settlements out of flotsam along the shoreline of bodies of water. Thereby, if he simply followed the narrow line of sand which seemed to be all the area could muster to pass as a beach it stood to reason that he’d happen upon the things soon enough.

And happen upon them he did.

With a gurgling cry another of the beasts leapt from the sawgrass. Nathanos wrenched the hatchet from his side and buried it in its skull. The soft bones giving way with a crunch beneath the power of the blow. Its lanky body fell to the ground with a thud.

Wrenching the weapon from where it had lodged, stopping only long enough to remove the mentioned fins, Nathanos moved on. Following its four toed tracks through the green tinged muck and sand until the settlement he was looking for at last came into view.

The stomach-churning stench of swamp muck and fish guts which mingled with the ocean breeze did nothing to curb the hunger which the kill had sparked within him. The want for blood. The need to hurt. To tear, with his weapons and his bare hands and his teeth, which he hadn’t had the time to satisfy in Jintha’alor which rested in his belly like a buzzing hive or hornets. Eyes trained on the nearest Murloc, unaware of his presence and its fellow’s recent death, the Dark Ranger stalked closer. Waiting. Poised to strike. And when, at last, the Murloc wandered into reach he pounced. Bursting from the saw grass like a lynx and felling it with a pass of his blades. Rolling up onto all fours and leaping onto another. Sword in one hand and hatchet in the other, bow and arrows left behind at harbor in favor of more physical measures. The taste of blood and the grit of sand in his mouth.

He’d struck down a third, the heady haze of predatory bloodlust shrouding his vision, before the Murlocs recovered. A rallying cry of unintelligible gurgles inciting the whole of those remaining to bum rush him at once. Nathanos bared his teeth in a feral grin.

One sprang and sank its hundreds of sharp teeth into his mail covered forearm; the Dark Ranger lifted it higher and used the hatchet in his other hand to lop it in half. Another meeting a brutal blow from the tip of his armored boot which crushed bone and left it lying prone and motionless in the sand.

Seeming to realize, too late, that they’d thrown themselves into a lost cause the few Murlocs still remaining attempted to retreat but Nathanos’ aim with his blades was just as good as it was with his arrows and soon the bloody sand was strewn with their amphibian bodies. Collecting the fins, allowing the feral fury to fall to a simmer and then die down, Nathanos retrieved his sword and hatchet and set off back toward the Harbor again.

By the time he made it back evening had tinted the sky a soft shade of violet. Asking around saw him to a tavern, where he found Grimbeard face deep in a stein but still sober enough to pay him what he owed. Nathanos returned to the inn with 20 gold.

Stephon had fallen asleep by then, though not in the bed; slumped beside the little window which overlooked the street, he seemed to have tried to watch for his return but had lost the battle with exhaustion.

Stripping off his mud and blood-soaked armor, Nathanos picked up the second pitcher of water which had been brought up for the basin-now cold-and began the process of meticulously cleaning the gunk caked over the links. Using the remainder to wash himself once he’d finished, then emptying the basin into the narrow shaft which head to the gutters outside.

Nathanos dried himself with a towel and redressed in his leathers before he reemerged from behind the thin curtain meant to separate the bath area from easy view and approached the window where his cousin slept. Bending down and lifting him into his arms in the futile hope that he could carry Stephon to the bed without waking him up.

Sure enough, he shifted around in his grip and opened is eyes. “You’re back.” He said. “You’ve been gone for hours. Did you find work?” Wordlessly, Nathanos set him down on the bed and then handed over the flier. Stephon took it and looked it over. “Murlocs?”

“Seems they’re a considerable problem around here, given the size of their population.” Nathanos said. “Good for our prospects, though. I’ve got a good rate for them and I predict I’ll continue to do so.”

“How long will it be, do you think?” Stephon asked, as if trying to sound casual.

“A month and a half, at least. A few weeks better than I originally expected.” Nathanos said. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes.” Stephon said. “I told the Innkeep that you’d come down to get your food when you returned.”

“Unfortunate that I find myself too tired to eat tonight.” Nathanos drawled.

“So…I only have two more months with you?”

The Dark Ranger Lord tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “About that time.” He said. “Why?”

Stephon hesitated, seeming to measure his cousin’s potential reaction, then he said “I still want to stay with you, you know.”

Nathanos let out a hissing sigh. “It’s pointless to push the matter. You know my answer and it isn’t going to change.” He said. “You belong with the Living, not with me.”

“But what if I did belong with you?” Stephon asked, earning a sharp side eye from the older man as he sat cross legged on the bed, watching him.

“You don’t.”

“But what if I did?”

“Stephon-.”

“What if I was like you?” the boy’s tone was becoming increasingly desperate. He’d leaned forward now, eyes wide. Expression nearly mad. “What if you made me like you? Please, Nathanos, make me like you! I want to stay with you!”

Turn him? Curse him? Was the boy mad? How could he ask for such a thing, at that age, when he didn’t understand what he was asking for. What he’d be giving up. A life. A family. Children. Peace, after death. But denying him outright, Nathanos knew from the way the boy was looking at him, would likely cause his cousin to close off from him again. So, instead, the Dark Ranger sighed.

“Ask me again,” he said, “when you’re old enough to understand what you’d be losing. The burden you’d be taking on. I’ll consider it, then, but not now. You’re 13, Stephon. You still have a lot of life to live.”

“But you promise?” Stephon asked, insistent. “When I’m older, an adult, you’ll change me?”

“When you’re old enough, I’ll consider it.”

“And how old is ‘old enough’? 18? 23?”

Nathanos stared at him for a long, drawn out moment. “Old enough.”

Stephon pouted, crossing his arms over his chest, but seemed to relent. “I’m holding you to that, Nathanos.” He said. “If you’re hoping I’ll forget about this, I won’t.”

“I’m sure you will.” By the time he was old enough to understand, to want a wife and a family of his own, he’d have completed his Paladin training and become an active member of the Argent Crusade. Surely, by then, the notion Stephon seemed to have that he wasn’t a monster, that undeath was something he might want, would be well and truly done away with. In fact, he was counting on it. “I’m sure you will.”

It was better that he didn’t. Better that he learned the truth of the world and saw that he was, in fact, a monster just like the ones which had destroyed their homes. Better that he turned his back on his cousin. Drew away. Met and married, lived and died, without ever seeing Nathanos again. For all that the damnable sentiment would tell him, urge him, to keep the boy close he wouldn’t. Because Stephon didn’t deserve to bare the curse of the title ‘Banshee Prince’.


	8. Chapter 8

Sylvanas stood atop the raised foot of Dawnstar Spire, looking out over the calm waters of the lake which separated their current position from Suncrown Village. They’d arrived in the southern region of Eversong Woods two days prior and had secured their forward base at the spire as best they could in preparation for the first leg of their assignment, the evacuation of the civilian population of the area behind the safety of the Inner Elf Gate just outside of Silvermoon. That included four small villages, two Sanctums and her own family home of Windrunner Spire.

Outrunners had been dispatched to each of the villages in question, messages sent to both Sanctums and to her home, all with orders from her, backed by the complete authority of King Anastarian, to evacuate to the north. The nearest settlements-Suncrown, just across the water, and Goldenmist Villages had already emptied of people but the farther flung settlements, she knew, would take time to make their way through the large swath of woodland. It was those people, those innocents, whom it was most important they protect as they, for the time being, were the most vulnerable. The most exposed. The easiest prey.

Sylvanas had sent another Outrider south to the Outer Gate, at the mouth of the Thalassian Pass, to observe the state of matters. Did it yet hold? Had the Scourge broken through? If so, in what force? If not, how many had fathered outside of it? Was their damnable leader there with them, or was it just his rotting foot soldiers for the time being? The Ranger General was under no illusions that they wouldn’t have to relocate to a position closer to the Outer Gate, perhaps her own home. At least until the undead’s advance forced them to fall back once more. The only question regarded the haste with which they’d have to do so.

Never the less, Sylvanas had packed up her supplies and ordered her Rangers to do the same. Nathanos’ hound was asleep at her feet.

“Lady Windrunner.” Hearing the other woman’s voice, Sylvanas turned her head to face the Ranger with a raised eyebrow. “The Outrider which you sent to the Outer Gate has returned with his report.”

“Let him in.” Sylvanas returned gaze to the water in front of her, glinting with points of light from the early afternoon sun. “There’s no time to waste on such matters.”

“Of course. I’ll send him to you.” The Ranger bowed and flitted out. The Outrider which Sylvanas had dispatched appearing a moment later.

“Lady Windrunner.” He greeted

“There’s no point in formality. Speak!” Sylvanas snapped, her blue eyes sharp. The mastiff jerked awake and let out a gruff bark. “What did you see at the Outer Gate?”

“The Outer Gate holds,” the man informed her, “but I’m not certain how long that will remain to be the case. The Scourge are just on the other side. They’re battering it with siege weapons.”

Siege weapons wouldn’t be enough to punch through the Inner Elf Gate, but the Outer Gate wasn’t as soundly reinforced or powerfully enchanted. Sylvanas knew that it would fall, and that it would fall sooner than any of them liked. Sooner than the span of time it would take for all of the civilians to make it to something close to safety. There truly was no time to waste.

“Thank you.” She pushed her way swiftly through the Spire’s lower floor until she managed to locate Lor’themar. “There you are!”

“You were looking for me?”

“To give you command of the Spire while I’m away, yes.” She said stiffly, pushing a lock of golden hair back behind her ear. “I’m taking the remaining Rangers south to reinforce the Outer Gate and slow the Scourge down, should it fall, so that more of our people might stand a chance of making it to safety. Those who return from delivering evacuation orders are under your authority until I make it back.”

“That’s not many.” Lor’themar said. “Only Rangers Flametwist, Autumnsworn and Brightwing. Are you certain it’s worth my remaining here?”

“Someone will have to remain behind to finish the job, should I fall.” She said. “Nathanos…is no longer here to do so. So that duty falls to you.”

The other Elf folded his arms and shook his head. “You and I both know I’d still be the one stuck here if that wasn’t the case because you’d take him with you instead.”

If only because ‘stay here while I go running into danger’ was the one order from her he’d have bucked. Not for the first time since his far too recent death, a stab of pain shot through her chest. She retrained a grimace only narrowly. “Don’t think I don’t trust you at my back,” Sylvanas said, “but Nathanos and I…” she looked away, “it’s hard to explain.”

“Your chemistry extended to the battlefield.” Lor’themar almost sounded rye. “I’ll hold things down here, Sylvanas, you have my word. Should you fall, those of us remaining will throw ourselves beneath them in a futile effort to defend the Inner Gate.”

The Ranger General rolled her eyes and whistled to the hound, which snapped to attention, before starting passed him. “We’ll be taking Dragonhawks to reach the area sooner. Should anything go wrong we’ll send word, with expectation that you’ll send for reinforcements.”

“Your expectation will be met.” He assured, watching her go. “Al diel shala.”

“Shorel’aran.” With the mastiff lumbering behind her and calling out for those of her men still stationed there, Sylvanas made her way over to where the Dragonhawks were stabled and waited fir the Rangers to gather there around her. “I received a report from the Outrider I dispatched to the Outer Elf Gate. The Scourge have begun breaching our defenses, even as we speak, and it’s of paramount importance that we be there to impeded their advance when they succeed in doing so.” The hound beside her stood silent, observing the other Elves with the same intimidating judgement which Nathanos had. Wincing, Sylvanas pushed such thoughts tenaciously aside and spoke again. “Lor’themar will mind matters here in our absence. We’re to mount up and head out to face whatever comes through those gates to buy our people some time.”

Grim looks and firm nods all around but Sylvanas’ attention had turned away from them to the hound which trailed after her. Nathanos, she knew, had painstakingly trained all his dogs to ride with him astride the Dragonhawks her people used for flight and the Dragonhawks, in turn, had learned to tolerate-if only barely-the presence of the hounds. All she had to do was motion to the hound and it would leap onto the saddle in front of her. From there, she’d have to hold onto it to prevent the dog from falling off the mount’s undulating back.

The Ranger General was confident she looked lore than a little bit ridiculous with the near-to-bear-sized hound all but obscuring her from view but it was better than leaving the dog behind. Reaching around its considerable bulk to grab the reins, Sylvanas commanded the Dragonhawk into the air. Maneuvering it into banking to the south south-west, towards Windrunner Spire. The other Dragonhawks, each baring one of her Rangers, a few accompanied by their own animal companions, in a ribbon-like trail of pink, blue and golden feathers.

The red and yellow leaves of Eversong Forest’s verdant canopy stretched out below them, an expanse of ancient trees and emerald grass dappled gently with charcoal shadows which seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. Cobbled roads, paved in rounded stones the color of sun-warmed sand, cut meandering paths through the forest; from time to time as they flew small groups of civilians, a few on Hawkstriders but most on foot, moving north towards the Inner Gate.

The familiar rooftop of her home came into view over the tops of the trees and Sylvanas directed her mount down. Landing atop the hill outside her front door and jumping down, followed by the hound.

“We’ll set up our forward base here,” she said. “Rangers Sungazer, Summermourn and Dawnsprinter will remain here. The rest of you will come to the pass with me and we’ll see to the state of things ourselves.”

The Rangers that she’d named broke from the group and swiftly entered the Spire, no doubt to ensure there was no one left inside. Her little sister, Sylvanas hoped, was safely back in Silvermoon by now, having taken the hearth stone she’d gifted her years before to the safety of the Bazaar. The rest fell in behind her, and the stout hound, in heading southward towards the pass.

The forest waned, somewhat, here, but didn’t falter and the spring-like temperatures persisted, staining the flanks of the mountains with in a vibrant carpet of bright green grass. The Outer Gate seemed to be intact, though to glow of the runic magic warding, it had noticeably faded and the sounds of the Scourge’s continued efforts and entry-the low groans of the unliving, the rattling clank of siege weapons and the impact of their fetid ammunition-were joined by the occasional concerning creak of protesting wood.

“It’s impossible to tell from this distance,” one of her Rangers-Redstar, more than likely-said, narrowed gaze set on the Gate before them, “but, if we were to get some Runesmiths here in time it might be possible to reinforce the Outer Gate with enough spells that they won’t be able to break through.

“Relying so much on magic alone to protect us, doing nothing else to try and protect ourselves, is foolishness. I’ve lost my brother to such blindness already.” Still, Sylvanas couldn’t see much other choice. What other options, realistically, did they have? Her Rangers were well trained and new the forest but they were few. Certainly not enough to stand against a force as large as what they surely faced. Not alone. Even if that force hadn’t been capable of multiplying exponentially; every one of the fallen swelling their bloated ranks further. If the outer gate fell, Sylvanas knew, they could slow them down but couldn’t stop them. And with Lordaeron, their nearest source of aid, already decimated retreat behind the inner gate would mean ceding the southern woods to Arthas and his taint.

It wasn’t a thought Sylvanas much liked.

“We’d have to get closer to be sure.” Redstar continued, shifting his position slightly further down the embankment where they’d stopped. As if wanting to lead but unsure the others would follow. “Orders, Ranger General?”

Sylvanas opened her mouth to speak but the hound at her side let out a deep bark of warning. Her blue eyes flicked to the Outer Gate in time to see it buckle beneath the force of a powerful blow before giving way with the deafening crunch of splitting wood.

“Shindu fallah na.” The words came out strangled. Stilted. As if, despite knowing breaking through their defenses was possible, deep down in her soul she hadn’t expected it to happen and now that it had the breath had been stolen from her lungs. But she forced the shock, the horror, aside as the first of the monsters pulled themselves through the resultant opening: little more than a ravaged corpse, dragging broken legs behind it as it shambled forwards slightlessly. “_Farstriders, the arms! We must hold them back for long enough to give our people time to reach the inner gate!”_

Heart pounding a paniced staccato against the inside of her rib cage, breaths burning with the stench of dark magic and rotting flesh which rolled before the invaders like a rancid tide, Sylvanas leapt from the embankment with the hound behind her, baying and snarling.

The undead were spilling through the gap in the Outer Gate at a terrifying speed: only ghouls and geists, at first, but in numbers that were near unfathomable and no doubt with the larger, more dangerous undead not far behind. Trampling and rolling over one another in their fumbling haste to keep moving, ever onwards, in search of the next source of living flesh. Incited near to a frothing madness by her presence and that of the Rangers behind her.

A geist leapt at her with a hoarse and gargled roar, hangman’s noose still trailing from its neck, only to be ripped from the air by the mastiff. The huge hound clamping down on it with its powerful jaws and beginning to shake its desiccated body like a rag doll. Sending limbs flying in random directions, one slamming into one of the more desiccated and skeletal monstrosities and snapping it in half at the waist.

Shooting another monster dead with a well-aimed arrow and against her better judgement Sylvanas found her eyes searching through the heaving throng. A few of the ghouls had clearly been long for their cursed existence, their skin dried to a jerky like texture against their bones and faces shriveled into death rictuses of bared teeth and hollow sockets, but most of them were horrifically fresh. All soft meat and running blood and exposed bones left to grey beneath the sun. Their features, and the terrible ways they’d met their ends, still discernable. Brown hair. Bearded face. Broad shoulders. She tried to still her eyes, to tell herself that if he was there, had been reduced to one of those empty things, that she didn’t want to know. That, even if that wasn’t true, there were far too many of them for her to search every face for Nathanos. But her eyes wouldn’t heed her and they continued to dart from beast to beast even as she cut more down. Her world consumed by the stench, so strong it coated her tongue in iron and the taste of rancid meat, and their guttural grunting groans. Until they found something familiar and froze. Her heart dropping.

Shuffling towards her at the fastest speed it could muster with how badly broken death had left its body was the reanimated corpse of what had once been a man. Blank eyed and slack jawed, head hung limply from a broken neck, but none the less immediately recognizable to her as proof that, despite her love’s best efforts, the Marris Stead had fallen.

“Allias!” The word came out a squeak. Tears stung her eyes as Nathanos’ voice rang again in her head; the commonly grumbled complaint of ‘my idiot farmhand’, even as she lifted her bow and took aim. Her first shot knocking the monster to the ground. The second stopping its movements.

She looked up at the sound of wood splinters cracking beneath unforgiving metal wheels in time to see the first of the Meat Wagons maneuver its way through the opening, a train of others not far behind. The sky overhead was thick with shale skinned gargoyles. Worst of all, an armored figure stood astride a skeletal horse atop the pile of wreckage the outer gate had been reduced to, bearing a terrible blade on his back.

Arthas.

“_Retreat!”_ She had to raise her voice well above a yell to be heard above the madness. Knocking another arrow and taking careful aim. “_Get to the Dragonhawks and head back to Dawnspire! Tell them that the first gate has fallen!”_

She fired, watching her arrow glance harmlessly off the Death Knight’s plated shoulder but none the less gained his attention. His blue eyes falling to her and narrowing. Twitching the reins of his terrible mount, he gave chase as she turned and ran. Darting around and beneath the fetid talons of the monsters reaching out for her. The thunderous footfalls of the traitor Prince drawing closer and closer behind her as the river came into view. Sylvanas’ footsteps pinging off the dried timbers as she skipped to a stop at the far end and turned to face him.

Arthas loomed from the back of his reanimated horse, skin peeling back over its skull and tongue lolling ghoulishly from its mouth. The runeblade in his hand pulsed an icy light, the ram skull above the weapon’s hilt almost seeming to stare at her. His pale face had drawn back into a jagged smile.

“End of the line, woman.” He growled. “You can run all you like but you’re never getting away from me.”

“Clearly,” Sylvanas drawled as she notched another arrow, “you’ve never fought an Elf before.” She fired straight upwards into the cloudless sky and the arrow returned a moment later in a glint of arcane silver. The bridge disintegrating a moment after it had lodged in the wood. “Because I wasn’t running.”

The Death Knight let out a roar of anger, clenching the runeblade tighter and pointing it in her direction in clear indication of a threat. “Don’t think this will stop me, witch!”

“I’m not trying to stop you, Arthas. Only slow you down.” Sylvanas flashed a taunting grin which only seemed to stoke his anger higher. Distantly, the prickling feeling that this was something she might not want to be doing made itself known only to be drowned beneath the bitter notion that the white-haired bastard across that narrow stretch of water was ultimately responsible for Nathanos’ death. She’d have loved nothing more than to shoot him dead right then and there but she still possessed enough good sense to know attempting such a thing was likely suicide; thee were times and places for such actions but her current position wasn’t one of them.

“Death _always_ catches up in the end.” Arthas snarled at her. “And when **_I_** catch you, wench, you’ll _beg_ for a death that I won’t grant you!”

“You’d have to catch me first.” Turning her back on him without another word and calling the attention of the snarling hound, Sylvanas slipped further into the forest. Weaving between the trees. Slowing her pace only once the sound of running water had faded behind her to nothing. Repressing the urge to break down by a mere thread. Now, more than ever, she wished that he was there but what she’d seen today had given her everything short of concrete proof that when next she saw him he’d be one of those monsters: a walking corpse, animated by dark magic, no longer capable of recognizing her as anything more than a source of food.

“I’ll find you.” She said, softly but determined. Fingers curling into a fist as she stopped to rest against a tree. “I’ll find you, Nathanos, and I’ll set you free. I promise.”

“Lady Windrunner!” She started upright as winged shadows passed over her. Looking up in time to see Ranger Brightdawn descending on her, followed by a rider less Dragonhawk which Sylvanas recognized by is pale pink plumage as the one that she’d rode in on. “You’re safe! Thank Belore!”

“I am.” Though by a narrower margin than she’d have preferred. It had been a gamble to lead him away, and even given the positive result of it she couldn’t be sure how long the river would obstruct him. “What of the others. Did they all make it out.”

“Most of us.” The other woman said grimly. “But this isn’t where we should discuss such things. It’s not safe here, my Lady.”

It wasn’t ‘safe’ anywhere in the southern forests now, but Sylvanas supposed that much was a moot point. Grabbing the reins, she swung herself back into the saddle and ordered the hound up after her. “Brief me once we’ve made it back to the Spire.”

Together, they rose above the trees.


	9. Chapter 9

“Mr. Marris, if ya have a moment?” The day had dawned grey with pelting rain which had delayed him setting out until nearly afternoon; Nathanos had been halfway out the door when the Innkeep had called after him and though the Dark Ranger would have loved nothing more than to continue on as if he hadn’t heard her he knew that, given their shaky position dependent on her hospitality, he couldn’t afford to anger her unnecessarily.

“Yes?” to his own ears, at least, his tone sounded perfectly polite.

“Pardon me for intruding on matters where I may na be wanted, but I may have a faster way that ya and yer cousin can make it ta Stormwind.” She said. “The carpenter an his son are lookin ta make a trip into Dun Morough ta do some business but they lost their horse about a month ago ta an illness. If ya were ta sell them yours, I’m sure they’d be happy ta at least give the two of ya a ride ta Kharanos. Ya could reach Ironforge on foot from there in about an hour, and take the tram ta Stormwind for considerably less than it’d cost ya ta charter a vessel. Especially this time of year.”

Useful information, a fact which came to him as something of a surprise. Perhaps, at times, observing one’s manners paid dividends in leading them onto a small stroke of luck. Rearranging his face into an expression of grateful relief which wasn’t too far from the truth Nathanos nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.” He said. “I’ll go to speak with them about the matter of selling the horse now. Where is it that I can find them, if I might ask?”

“Ah, nah far from here actually. Ashstone’s little store front is just down the road. First store on the right, once ya’ve turned the corner.”

“Thank you.” Turning again to leave the building, Nathanos circled around the outside of the inn and retrieved the mare from the stables. Swinging himself up onto her back and setting off down the road in search of the aforementioned store.

He managed to locate it without much trouble, the appropriate shop clearly indicated by a wooden sign creaking in the wind which read ‘Ashstone Furnishings’. Dismounting and tying the mare’s reins to a nearby post, Nathanos mounted the front stairs and stepped inside.

The door swung open with the tinkle of the iron bells which hung above it. The interior was dark, lit only by the rain-washed light which filtered in through the dust caked front windows, and dry and smelled sweetly of saw dust and wood polish. The floor boards creaked beneath his feet as he maneuvered through fine crafted chairs and tables towards the front desk and rapped his knuckles against the wooden top.

A dwarf shuffled out from behind a curtain almost immediately after, long beard shot through with grey and bushy eyebrows obscuring most of his forehead, and squinted up at him. “What can I do for ya?”

“I’m currently staying in the inn down the street,” Nathanos told him, “and the Innkeep informed me that you’re looking to purchase a horse?”

“We are lookin ta purchase a horse.” The Dwarf confirmed. “Are ya lookin ta sell one?”

“And for travel for two and a hound to Ironforge.” Nathanos said. “Pure bred. Lordaeric stock. Healthy. You’re welcome to look her over; I have her outside.”

“Lead the way, lad.” The Dwarf said jovially, waddling after him out of the store and back into the afternoon sun. The carpenter’s small eyes roved appreciatively over the animal’s shiny coat and he let out a shrill whistle. “Muradin’s beard, she’s a beauty! Will she take a harness?

“She was raised to, according to the farmer that I bought her from.” He said.

“Yer travel can be arranged; there’ll be more than enough space for the two of ya and yer hound in our cart.” The Dwarf said. “How much were ya wantin for her?”

At this point the only thing left for the money to go towards was tram fare. Everything left over would be given to Stephon: a fund which could be used to purchase everything he’d need for his training and pay for his return to their ruined homeland. Thereby, the more he could cram into it the better. “I paid 300 for her. I’d like to get at least that much back. The gold would be sorely needed in getting ourselves back off the ground; we’ve lost everything.”

Pride or not, Nathanos wasn’t above preying on the living’s tendency for sentiment.

The aged Dwarf seemed to consider this for a long moment before saying “how’s 450, lad?”

150 more than he’d paid. A healthy sum to add to the small fortune of Murloc bounty money he’s accumulated over the past two full days he’d spent massacring the creatures out in the swamp. Nathanos nodded and thrust a hand forward for the Dwarf to shake; a gesture the carpenter didn’t hesitate to return, unconcerned by the cutting points of his talons. “It’s a deal.” He said. “When’s the soonest you can leave?”

“Given it’s a part of our deal, an that the two of ya seem ta be in need of movin on, my son and I’ll be happy ta take the two of ya to Ironforge this evening. Should reach the city around early mornin tomorrow.”

“Seems like a sharp turn around to make in only a handful of hours.” Nathanos said. “Aren’t you looking to transport product to sell?”

“They’ll always be time for that later, Lad. I did buy yer horse, after all.” The Dwarf chuckled. “Lordaeron and Khaz Modan are allies. We’ve all heard what’s happened up in the north. An we all do our part ta help our friends.”

The Dark ranger grunted and folded his arms over his chest, careful the keep the scowl from unfurling across his face: how perfectly the man before him had summed up the foremost problem of the living. Sentimental. Weak. “I suppose.”

“Bring the boy an yer dog at dusk back here; we’ll have tha cart out front ready ta go.”

Two more hours, judging by the positioning of the sun in the sky. Nathanos nodded but said nothing. “Thank you.” He said. “We’ll return then.”

After another brief moment in which an exchange of gold took place, the Dark Ranger turned and made his way back towards the inn.

“Ya spoke with him?” the Innkeep asked when she caught sight of him. Nathanos nodded but said nothing. “Good luck ta both of ya on yer journey. Let that sweet boy know he’s released from work once he’s finished stocking the firewood out back.”

Another grunt as he headed for the back door and stepped through it. Reemerging out into the humidity which hung above the harbor like a wet wool blanket. It didn’t take him long to find his cousin. Stephon was walking towards the short set of steps where he stood, vision obscured by the towering pile of wood he had clutched in his thin arms. Nathanos, silent, watched him move forward towards the stack of fire wood and drop the timber with a dry clatter. Immediately beginning to organize the wood into the correct configuration.

“Stephon.” The boy jumped, dropping the piece of wood in his hand, and turned to face him with wide eyes. “Finish with the fire wood and come up to the room. We’re leaving in a few hours.”

“W-What?” he asked. “You can’t have made enough money for the boat already.”

Nathanos shook his head. “I sold the horse in exchange for passage to Ironforge.” He said. “We’ll take the Deeprun Tram to Stormwind from there.”

“But…” the boy’s expression pulled down into a frown, “that means I only get a few more days before you leave me.”

The Dark Ranger nodded. “It does.” He said. “Don’t pout, it’s for the best. There’s nothing I can offer you in the long run, and I need to go back north to fight.”

“Just…promise me you won’t forget. That you promised.” Stephon said. “When I’m ‘old enough’ I’ll find you again. And you can turn me then. That way, we can stay together like families are supposed to.”

Nathanos closed his eyes and sighed. “Then we can stay together, yes.” He had to fight with himself to keep the stab of pain, and the flash of anger over it, off his face. “Finish up and get your things. We set out at nightfall and should arrive in Ironforge by morning.”

“And how long after that until we reach Stormwind?” he asked.

“A handful of hours.”

Stephon sighed and turned to walk back to the pile of timber he was transporting to the stack of fire wood. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Nathanos nodded and made his way back inside and up to their room. Scrip was lying at the foot of the bed where he entered and began to tap his tail against the sheets as soon as he heard the door open. The Dark Ranger paused to straighten their belongings before he crossed the room and dropped his hand to the old hound’s head. Lightly scratching behind his ragged ears. “You watch over him now.” He said, meeting the dog’s almost blind eyes. “You watch over him because I can’t anymore. Help him be happy.”

Scrip nudged his hand with his cold nose and yawned. In leu of any other means of response Nathanos chose to take that as agreement.

The door opened a moment later to allow Stephon into the room. After pausing long enough to note that there was nothing left which needed packing that Nathanos hadn’t already seen to, he shuffled up to his cousin and wrapped his arms around his middle. By this point the Dark Ranger had given up the effort of discouraging the boy’s clinginess as a lost cause and simply allowed it. Resting a firm hand on his shoulder and the other on the top of his head.

“I know that you’re unhappy now.” He said. “But you’ll understand in time. And you’ll thank me, then, for not being selfish.””

“Selfish?” Stephon raised his head from where it had been tucked into his breastplate to look up at him. “You mean you want to keep me with you?”

Nathanos froze, faced with the split-second choice between revealing his weakness and pushing the boy away, before he sighed. “Of course I want you with me.” He admitted, prying the reluctant words from between his teeth. “But it would destroy you. The living aren’t meant to be with the dead.”

“I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

No, the Dark Ranger knew, he wouldn’t forget. But none of that would matter once reality had opened his eyes to the truth that he, that all of the Forsaken, were monsters. Nor would taking pride, rather than shame, in that truth change things.

“Put Scrip on the lead while I get our things.” Gently, Nathanos stepped free of his cousin’s grip and turned his back on him. Listening to the boy and the hound move across the room as he hoisted their few remaining bags up onto his shoulders. “Ready to go?” he asked, still without looking at him.

“Yes.” Stephon’s small hand found his cloak again and they walked out. Down the stairs. Onto the street. The cart, with the painted mare Nathanos had sold hitched to the front, was already on the street when they turned the corner, the carpenter and another Dwarf waiting beside it.

“Ah, there’s the lad now!” The aged Dwarf raised a calloused hand to wave them over. “Ya got everything?”

“And everyone.” Nathanos said. “We’re setting out?”

“Aye.” The Dwarf said. “Go ahead an throw yer things in tha back an hop on. Though, uh,” he eyed Stephon for a moment “it gets right cold up in those mountains. If the wee lad has something a bit warmer ta wear ya may want ta have it ready for him.”

“I can handle a little snow!” Stephon said confidently but Nathanos wasn’t about to stand for that.

“Like hell you can.” He grunted. “You’ll be wearing my cloak once we get up into the mountains. No negotiation.”

Stephon huffed. “Yes, Sir.”

Nathanos rolled his eyes, throwing their bags over the side before bending down to hoist up Scrip. Stephon had already clambered in himself. Pulling his bow down from his shoulders and propping it against the wall, Nathanos swung up into the cart as well.

“Secure back there?” the second Dwarf called.

“Secure as possible.” Which wasn’t really all that secure; but for them, the back of the cart was occupied only by loose hay which would serve as something of a primitive cushion. He’d dealt with worse in his time. Didn’t really get terribly uncomfortable even lying on stone now that he was undead. It was Stephon that he was concerned about.

Scrip had flopped down beside their supplies and promptly fallen asleep. Stephon was in the process of gathering the hay around them into a more organized pile which he could settle on. Satisfied that the pair would be comfortable enough to survive the night’s travel Nathanos settled himself against the wall of the cart. Folding himself into a resting position as the wheels squeaked into motion beneath them.

The cart trundled down the road, out of the harbor and wound its way up into the mountains. Around bends which led to steep drop offs on one side. The temperature plunged as they rose higher, rock and grass giving way to ice and snow as day gave way to evening and then night.

Nathanos had wrestled his cousin into his cloak some hours before and the boy, with the hound wrapped in his arms, was now asleep; curled up into his side, quiet breathing drowned beneath the creaking of the wooden wheels. The Dark Ranger for his part, was reclined on his back in the hay, pretending to be asleep himself. Passing the time by staring up at the stars.

Once upon a time, star gazing had been one of his favorite activities. Something he’d done often, whilst out training in the forests of Quel’thalas or on missions with the Farstriders, often with Sylvanas beside him. So many skies he’d been beneath-Northrend, Pandaria, Zan’dalar and Kultiras.-yet, before Quel’lithian, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked up like he was doing now.

The thousands of pinpoints of silver light gleamed coldly down at him from the blue-violet sky. The lights of Teldrassil, glinting from the World Tree’s branches, had looked similar, Nathanos remembered, before it had burned. That night, even now, was one which he remembered more vividly than even the night of his own death. It was the night which his Lady had taken the last step into the realm of madness. The night where Nathanos had known that, even still, he’d follow her willingly to the very ends of the earth; to the depths of hell and back again. The stench of smoke. The heat of the blaze. The words of the dying Night Elf, lying on the stones: _a war waged against life is one you’ll never win._ Now, lying there, wrestling with emotions he’d thought long dead which Stephon’s presence had somehow revived, Nathanos couldn’t help but wonder if Delaryn Summermoon had been right.

But it wouldn’t stop him from trying. He’d fight and fight and fight against life and the Living until he knew that his people and his Lady would be safe or he’d died his second death in the attempt. Arthas. Greymane. The Alliance. None of them would touch her! Ever! And anyone who tried, well, they’d live long enough to regret it but only just.

The cart pulled off to the side of the road about two hours passed midnight, and three hours later, just before the sun had begun to lighten the horizon, they started off again. Fat, wet flakes of snow fell silently from the white clouded sky above them and the frigid fields which stretched off to both horizons muted all sound. The stout, stone-wrought forms of the buildings making up the Dwarven town of Kharanos poked up from the snow. The cart maneuvered through the narrow streets and started up the slope of the mountain, headed towards the Dwarven Capital’s massive gates.

The cart drew to a stop at the stone feet of what Nathanos strongly suspected was some long dead Thane, allowing them out onto the road. A thin layer of snow covered a thick layer of ice and crunched beneath their feet. Stephon shivered, wrapping himself more tightly in his older cousin’s cloak, and pressed tighter against him. With one hand holding the leather leash of the hound and the other firmly planted on the boy’s back Nathanos walked in through the gates.

The blast of heat from the Great Forge was so intense compared to the frigid was so intense compared to the frigid temperatures outside that even Nathanos picked up on it. The frost which had gathered in his beard beginning to melt, dripping down the contours of his jawline. Stephon let out a relieved huff and turned his face up towards the source of the welcome heat. Blood granting a vital flush to his cheeks and his lips pulling into a smile.

“Warm?” Nathanos felt profoundly stupid standing there, stating the obvious. Thankfully, for both of them, Stephon simply nodded and they continued onwards. Skirting the rim of the trenches full of molten metal. Winding their way along the circular drives, they reached the entrance to the Deeprun Tram. At this point in time, if memory served, it was still fairly new. Connecting the Dwarven Capital to the recently rebuilt Stormwind.

The city ruled by the Wrynns.

Biting back another sneer, Nathanos paid the Gnome who stood out front the cost of two tickets and led the boy and the hound down the slopping corridor into the station.

The air here was cooler, dry and stale with the heavy metallic scent of grease and oil. With a hydraulic hiss and a rush of air a tram rumbled up into the station and came to a stop in front of them.

Nathanos looked down at his cousin. “Preference?”

Stephon glanced up at him, seemed to consider something no doubt along the lines of ‘staying here’, then said “front.”

“Front it is.” Nathanos started towards the indicated car. “Seems we have the entire tram to ourselves. Five more hours and we’ll be in Stormwind.” Grumbling what sounded suspiciously like ‘don’t remind me’ the boy followed him onto the front cart. Ignoring the empty seat beside him, Stephon muscled his way into his cousin’s lap. “You’re too old for this.” Nathanos grunted, but didn’t stop him.

“Don’t care.”

The Dark Ranger sighed but fell silent. Scrip leapt up to claim the seat for his own. A shrill warning whistle echoed off the station walls. Then the Tram pulled away into the tunnel, rumbling around them as it steadily picked up speed.

A dour way to travel, Nathanos couldn’t help but think, not that he was unused to long periods of time spent underground. Though the last time he’d spent any real length of time without sight of the sky had been during the Cataclysm, after faking his second death had forced him into hiding.

He would not be forced to hide again. Not from his enemies. Not from his shame. He was the Dark Lord! The Hunter King! He would rule beside Sylvanas, this time, instead of abandoning her to grasp at straws and fall to madness.

This time, damn them all, would be different. And all who threatened the Forsaken would learn to cower at his name.

But there was still some time left before that happened. One last important thing left for him to do.

“Do you still have it?” Nathanos wasn’t certain where the words came from. Or the desperation which came with them.

He expected his cousin to look at him in confusion, or at the very least to ask what ‘it’ was, but Stephon reached instead for the thin leather chord around his neck and tugged. The High elven coin coming free in a glint of gold. “Mother hung it on this after Sylvanas gave it to me. So that I wouldn’t lose it.” He said.

Had she done that last time? Nathanos couldn’t recall. All he knew was that Stephon had held onto the coin until he’d learned the truth of what had befallen them, then tossed it away into the muddy waters of the Throndroril. “Do you remember?” the Dark Ranger asked. The sunlight. The pasture, full of wild flowers. Sylvanas riding up to see him. Nathanos gently scolding him for his interruption. “Why she gave you that coin?”

“To buy my first sword.” The boy said, running his thumb over the contours of the metal. “When I finally start training to join the Knights of the Silver Hand.”

“You still want that?” Nathanos asked. The boy nodded. “You know that you have to go through at least the basic training of a Priest first?”

Stephon nodded again. “Two years. But I can’t start until I’m 16.” He said. “I’ll go back north when I’m 18.”

For the next five years, at least, he could be certain that his cousin was safe. Overhead, one of the lights flashed by; a thin band of Gnomish glass which shot off into the dark away from them. Nathanos looked down at the boy who was clinging to him; to the coin strung about his neck. “Grow up strong.” Stephon glanced up at him in surprise and Nathanos held his gaze with steady gravity. “Realize your dreams. Find love and have a family and die a Human death. One that will allow you to rest peacefully afterwards. Those are the most that I could wish for you; that you won’t meet the fate that I did.”

His cousin didn’t seem to know how to respond and so he simply elected not to. Staring for a few moments and then dipping his head in a slight nod.

The rest of their ride passed in silence.

The last time he’d seen Stormwind it had been from the Dragon’s back. The last time he’d seen it up close had been while weaving through the canals, Thalyssra, a pair of Zandalari, and the Horde’s Mental Deficient First Class-known to most as ‘hero’-after breaking into, and then back out of, one of the most secure prisons on Azeroth. Needless to say, the prospect of walking through the streets like any other person, as if he belonged there, was a fairly daunting one but he’d faced far more terrible things. Scrip trotting behind them and Stephon at his side, the Dark Ranger maneuvered through the streets and over the canals until they reached the cathedral district. Ducking through the front door of the orphanage which stood beside the church.

The Matron rushed up to them almost immediately. “Hello, Sir. How can I help you?”

“We’ve fled south from the madness in Lordaeron.” Nathanos said gruffly. “I’m the only family he has left but I’m a soldier and it’s my duty to return and fight for my kingdom. I need to leave him somewhere he’d be safe so that…if I were ever to return and fight for my kingdom.”

“We’ve all heard what’s happened in Lordaeron, but he’s the only one we’ve gotten. I fear what that entails for the other children who might have lost their parents in this war. To those monsters.” She shook her head. “The hound too?”

“If possible.”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then nodded. “We’ve more than enough space for both of them.” The matron said. “What’s the darling’s name and how old is he?”

“Stephon Marris.” Nathanos said. “He’s 13.”

“You’re his father?”

Naturally that was what people always seemed to assume. Their familial resemblance was stronger than could usually be found between cousins, on account of the Dark Ritual which had taken Stephon’s life. “I’m his older cousin, but…I’m the closest thing to a father figure he’s ever had.” He said. “His parents died when he was very young and my mother took him in.”

“Twice orphaned then, the poor thing.” The woman said. “We’ll take good care of him, Sir. You have my word.”

Nathanos nodded, looking down at his cousin again and tightly squeezed his shoulder; a reassuring gesture which he knew, would be his last. Stephon looked up at him from beneath his fringe then, reluctantly, nodded. The Dark Ranger untied the coin purse from his belt and pressed it into his younger cousin’s hands. “Use it for your training.” He said. “Make me proud.”

“Goodbye, Nathanos.” Stephon said softly. Thin fingers tightly wrapped around the purse. “Be safe.”

Forcing his feet to move, the Dark Ranger turned his back on both boy and dog and exited the orphanage without another word. Making his way back through the white streets-too bright and lively for his taste-towards the aerie.

More than Alliance, more than Scourge, more than Murlocs, more than even the Lich King himself, the Blightcaller _hated_ birds. As such, the thought of being forced to go within ten feet of a griffon of all things was utterly repugnant. But Nathanos knew that if he wanted to get back up north to Lordaeron-and he didn’t want to walk or swim-he didn’t have a choice. Gritting his teeth, the Dark Ranger swept up the stone steps and out onto the wooden deck above.

Coolly, he scanned the area. Griffons in numerous colors-a tawny alongside an ebon and the pure white stock favored by royals-and a scrawny looking man whom Nathanos assumed was the Flightmaster. No guards in the immediate vicinity. Good, as he’d no doubt find himself having to use force and intimidation by the end of his dealings with the man.

Confidently, but not allowing himself to appear threatening before he needed to, Nathanos strode forwards. The Flightmaster, on catching sight of him, raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Sir,” he said, “can I get you a flight somewhere?”

“Andorhal.” Nathanos grunted, returning none of the other’s enthusiasm.

Expectedly, his face fell. “I’m sorry, Sir. But due to the upheaval currently going on in Lordaeron it’s a mandate of the crown that I not to send any birds up that way.” He said. “Is there somewhere else you’d like to go?”

The Dark Ranger drew himself up to his full height. Dropping his disguise in its entirety; revealing his death-blue skin and glaring red eyes. The intimidating spikes of his black armor. Watching the man stiffen, then recoil. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding between us.” His voice was low and dangerous. A frigid growling tone which would have frosted over glass had any been present. “You don’t want an outbreak of undeath here, do you? I’ll reiterate. I require a flight to Andorhal.”

“T-Take the bird!” The Flightmaster squeaked, now all but coiled up in the corner frozen in terror. “Take the bird and go! Don’t hurt me! Please!”

“Pleasure doing business.” Pulling himself up onto the back of the nearest griffon and with a last threatening glance over his shoulder, Nathanos prodded his mount over the lip of the deck and into the air.


	10. Chapter 10

They’d lost three Rangers in the fall of the Outer Gate. Two more, hours later, after they’d succumbed to the infection in the bites which they’d received. An outrider had been sent north, back towards Silvermoon, with news of what had happened. Scouts had been dispatched throughout the area to observe the Scourge activity, both on foot and from the air. Sylvanas had known that what she’d done in destroying the bridge over the Elrendar River would only be a temporary fix but she’d hoped that it would delay the Scourge for long enough to be meaningful. But Arthas had simply ordered his ghouls forward into the water, each piling onto the other until a wall of fetid flesh had damned the current’s flow and created a bridge for his forces to cross. As of two days ago, her Dragonhawk riders hadn’t been able to safely run their routes. As of that morning, they’d begun having to shoot gargoyles out of the sky at Dawnstar.

Something needed to be done, Sylvanas knew, and soon. Though what that was she didn’t know. And that reality, the reality of the fact that they-all of them-were helpless, irked her. She was a huntress! This was _her_ forest! And yet, so easily, these monsters rendered her all but useless; cornered and frightened like a rabbit in a hole. She wouldn’t stand for it. Her pride wouldn’t stand for it. The Scourge would regret ever setting foot in the Land of Eternal Spring, among many other things, once she was through but now wasn’t the time for rash action.

More than anything, they needed information. Eyes on their enemy. And that left her reliant on her scouts on the ground and the handful of brave Outriders who facilitated communication between them. It was more sitting there. More waiting. It made her blood boil but there was little else she could do.

“Another of the scouts’ reports have come in.” Lor’themar said from behind her. Watching as she notched an arrow on her string and shot another gargoyle from the sky with the shattering crunch of breaking stone. “Needless to say, the undead are acting erratically. Have dissolved into smaller marauding groups. Dispersing in seemingly random directions instead of heading for the inner gate. It’s as if they were simply expanding by compulsion.”

“’Simply expanding by compulsion’ yet taking active measures to keep us pinned.” Sylvanas took aim again and another gargoyle fell with a screech. “No. This is purposeful. They’re looking for something.”

“You mean…hunting?”

Satisfied, for the time being, that the sky above the spire was clear Sylvanas turned to face him. An unforgiving graveness in her eyes. “You know exactly what I mean, Theron.” She snapped. “Now’s not the time for being squeamish!”

“The Runestones?” the words were choked, as if speaking them alone were some form of high blasphemy. “But that’s impossible. Arthas couldn’t know about the Key of Three Moons, unless… You think? Surely not!”

“We’ve been betrayed before.”

The other Elf looked scandalized. “By the Amani.” He said. “Forest Trolls! But for that Death Knight to learn of the key to the Inner Gate? We’d have to have been sold out by one of our own.”

“The Quel’dorei are not immune to Judas, Lor’themar, and we can’t afford to blind ourselves to that simply because we’d rather not believe it.” She snapped. “I don’t think I have to outline for you, Ranger, what will happen if Arthas Menethil makes it through that gate?”

“Of course not, Ranger General.” Lor’themar said. “I’ll send another outrider back north to have a look around. If anyone has been noticed acting-.”

“_We don’t have time for that!”_ She cut him off sharply. “Call Redstar, Brightwing and Emberdawn!”

“As you wish.” Without any further delay, Lor’themar turned and shuffled away. Returning a few minutes later with the other three she’d asked for. Halduron smiled, attempted to catch her attention, but she summarily ignored him.

“Time is of the essence. I have reason to believe we may have been betrayed by someone within Silvermoon. That knowledge of the Inner Gate’s key has been passed to the Death Knight Prince and that he now seeks to combine the runestones into the Key of Three Moons. It’s paramount that we determine whether or not they’re all accounted for; as such, I’ll be dispatching each of you to gather that information.” Sylvanas said. “Redstar, head to An’telas. Emberdawn, An’daroth. Brightwind, An’owyn. Get in. Get out. I expect your return within the hour.”

“Yes Ranger General.” All three snapped to brief salute before they departed. Satisfied her orders would be followed, Sylvanas resumed her vigil for encroaching sky fiends.

“If he is after the Runestones,” Lor’themar said after a long moment of silence, “if he manages to get to one or more of them, what do we do?”

Pray. “We fight.” Sylvanas told him, tone, for all the world, making the matter seem simple. Both Elves knew, of course, that it was far from it. If the Scourge made it through the Inner elf Gate, all was lost. It would be destruction unlike anything their people had ever seen, even at the hands of the Orcs and the dragons they’d enslaved.

There’d be nothing left to do but hope for fate’s mercy.

“Should the worst come,” Sylvanas said, turning to face him again, “it was a pleasure to serve by your side.”

“As it was an honor to serve beneath you, Lady Windrunner.” He replied. “But we shouldn’t be saying our farewells quite yet.”

“Perhaps not.” Sylvanas said. “I suppose we’ll know the nature of our fate when they return.”

They fell silent, then. Soon after, Lor’themar moved away and left her in the company of her bow and the hound. Sylvanas resumed her position, watching the sky, until the other Elf returned.

She knew immediately on seeing his face that her worst fears had been realized. “They’re gone?”

“An’telas and An’owyn.”

“And An’daroth?”

Lor’themar shook his head. “Redstar didn’t return.”

Harshly, Sylvanas cursed. A cold feeling of dread filling her. A tension flooding her limbs and forcing her to move. “Send an outrider to warn Silvermoon!” She ordered, slinging her bow back over her shoulder and bolting for the spire’s front. “They’re still in the area of An’daroth if they’ve even gotten to it already! We have to stop them!”

With all of her Rangers already in a state of alarmed alert, rallying them to set off was simply done and soon the sky was thick with Dragonhawks. Multicolored feathers streaming to the west, out across Lake Elrendar and the abandoned streets of Suncrown Village. Already, the massive presence of the undead had eft a scar in the earth from their passing. Across this scar was the last remaining Runestone.

Even before they’d landed the Ranger General could already recognize that getting close to An’daroth wouldn’t be easily done. The area swarmed with ghouls. Shambling corpses forming what all but amounted to a carpet over the gnarled roots which covered the forest floor. Arrows flew as they fought their way forward, finally managing to punch a hole through the Scourge lines and rush upon the cloaked figure which stood beside the final stone. Not Arthas but another Elf, just as she’d suspected.

“Traitor!” Sylvanas snarled, leveling him in the sights of her bow as he turned. The face beneath the broad brim of his black hat instantly recognizable. “Step away from the Runestone, Dra’thir!”

The Magister had the audacity to grin at her and Sylvanas restrained the urge to toss her bow to the dirt and leap on him then and there. Tear him apart with her bare hands. “Ah, Ranger General, so nice of you to arrive.” He drawled. “I take it that the Farstrider my Ghouls ate earlier belonged to you?”

“How could you?” She hissed, drawing her bowstring back further. Narrowing her eyes. “How could you betray us to them? What could you possibly have gained from it?”

“Quite a great deal, my dear. I must admit, Sylvanas, that out of everyone in Quel’thalas I thought that you’d understand ambition the most.”

“Your ‘ambition’ would destroy our _people_!”

The Mage before her simply shrugged. His grin growing wider still. “Acceptable losses, not that you’ll have to witness it happening. Though I’ll have to leave dealing with you to the others. Arthas is expecting me, after all. Me and the stone.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Kim’jael!” Lor’themar snapped. His own bow leveled at the other Elf’s chest.

“Oh, is that so?” Dar’khan drawled. “I think my friends would disagree with you. _Kill them!”_

The traitorous Magister wrenched the stone from its pylon and spun about to run. Both Lor’themar and Sylvanas took aim with their bows but neither managed to get off a shot before the ground heaved upwards and they tumbled back. Landing, hard, on the root hardened soil. Arrows scattering from their quivers; covering the earth in a haphazard sprawl.

Limbs, thin and multi-jointed, rose up into the silver moonlight. First four. Then eight. Then sixteen. With the clatter of chitin and the chittering of venomous mouth parts, a pair of terrible creatures dragged themselves into view. Six-foot spider beasts the like of which she’d never seen which lunged towards them at a terrifying speed.

“Fire. _Fire, damn it all!_” Halduron’s voice was followed by the twang of bowstrings being released. Arrows hissed through the air. Pelting down onto one of the beasts and distracting enough of its attention to make it change course.

The second creature was still baring down on them, its eight black eyes pitiless and predatory, and showed no signs of slowing down. Sylvanas and Lor’themar both lunged for the spilled ammunition. Each grabbing fistfuls of arrows-their own and each other’s-and shoving them into their quivers before snatching up their bows. But the spider monster was too fast. Bearing above her with a hissing squeal and raising its claw tipped forelegs to strike.

With a bellowing howl, Nathanos’ hound took a running leap at the monster. Colliding with it with its full force and weight and knocking it to the ground. Powerful jaws locking around its armored body and biting down with a brutal crunch. The spider beast squealing in pain and bucking the hound off. The mastiff recovering and coiling down to attack again only for the monster to strike first.

“_No!”_ The sight of the mastiff’s bloody, crumpled form made her vision tint red. A loosed arrow drove into the creature’s shriveled head, followed by two more, and it rolled onto its back, limbs curled inwards, and stopped moving.

The second beast was still upright, but not for much longer: another of her Rangers had fallen, but Halduron had led the charge in lopping off most of its legs. Moments later, the creature listed too far in the effort to attack and toppled over. Left vulnerable to the storm of blades which rained down on it.

“They have the last stone needed to make the Key of Three Moons.” Sylvanas said, forcibly tearing her gaze from the hound. Leaving it felt too much like leaving him, lying there to rot in the dirt, but there wasn’t time. No matter what the dog had meant to her. “Get back to the Dragonhawks! We make our last stand at the Inner Gate!”

With steely looks on their faces and grim resignation in their eyes the remaining Farstriders hurried after her back to where they’d left their mounts. The Dragonhawks whipping around in midair to the north at speed. Rushing over the gathering horde beneath them; the mounted armored figure at their head. Descending on the other side of the gate.

“We don’t have much time!” Sylvanas said. “Lor’themar, take Brightwing and Emberdawn and tell _everyone_ that they need to move behind the walls of Silvermoon immediately! The rest of you, fortify the area the best you can and prepare for battle! That Gate is coming down!”

“Yes, Lady Windrunner!” Lor’themar and Halduron took off running towards nearby Fairbreeze Village. Everyone else exploding into a flurry of motion all around her. Rushing about to grab what they could-stones and fallen branches-and erect crude barricades. A desperate effort to break the tide of the dead and afford cover from behind which they could shoot.

All too soon the flash of light heralding the unlocking of the Inner Gate rose on the horizon. The shambling hordes of the Scourge rushing towards them. Gnashing their jaws. Slashing with claws of sharpened bones. Ghouls. Skeletons. Geists. Monsters pelting towards them through the field of golden flowers. Gargoyles darkening the otherwise cloudless sky of midday. The juxtaposition of it all was sharp and jarring and threw off both her focus and her aim.

A loosed arrow flew just shy of a ghoul, which lunged at her. Sylvanas swung the bow in her hands at it and the sturdy arm knocked its head from its shoulders with a dry snap.

Shrieks and screams from behind and around her. The ever-increasing numbers of Scourge forcing them to give more and more ground, retreating towards the city. Meat wagons tearing the earth to shreds beneath their spike-shorn wheels. Mortars of rancid meat leaving deep craters in the ground. Her rangers falling all around her: Summermoon, Dawnsprinter, Sungazer.

Civilians were rushing past them. Terrified. Desperate for the perceived safety of the capital not even a hundred yards away. A woman, clutching an infant in her arms, tripped and fell hard to the ground. Firing off another arrow, Sylvanas dipped down and hauled her back upright.

“Go!” She shouted. “Get behind the walls!”

“Ranger General!” Spinning around at the shout of warning Sylvanas fired another arrow into the shriveled socket of a skeleton. Then a second. Then a third. Firing, over and over, until she’d run out of arrows but still, they kept coming. And in the near distance, still mounted on his damnable horse…

The monster that had brought so much destruction and suffering to her homeland and her people; the beast who’d taken her lover from her and all but certainly enslaved him. She was going to die there, in that field, on that day. Sylvanas knew there was no chance she’d make it out. Given she was already condemned, what better chance than this for a bit of revenge?

Dropping her now useless bow to the ground and drawing her blades, Sylvanas took off running at full speed towards the mounted Death Knight. Eyes locked with his. Blood boiling at the sight of the mocking smirk on his face. She’d kill him! She’d _kill him_ for all of this and if she died in the process it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was avenged.

Arthas was so close that she could see the heat lines in his plate armor. Pick out the separated strands of his hair. The pupils beneath the haze of Lich fire in his eyes. She leapt high, blades raised to strike him down….and everything went white.

A blinding, crippling pain. The impact of her body meeting with the earth. Then nothing.

It was warm, wherever she’d found herself. Warm and comforting and beautiful, for all that endless blackness was all her blinded eyes could see. Death. She was dead. Arthas had struck her down with Frostmourne, a strike so fast she hadn’t even seen it. And she, Ranger General of Quel’thalas, veteran of countless battles with Orc and Troll alike, hadn’t even touched him.

Before the indignant fury of the unfairness of it all could truly register, all stable grasp on conscious thought was obliterated in a plume of molten pain. Tendrils of cold power catching her in a powerful grasp. Dragging her back into the realm of the living, a place where she no longer belonged.

Nathanos. Nathanos! He was all she really wanted now. His steady presence. The comfort of it. The way he always seemed to know how to handle her, to calm her down. Her mind raced. A tailspin of images, blurred colors and more orders from a formless voice issuing from somewhere she couldn’t see. More screaming. Her own body lying prone amidst the dying flowers, his bracer on her wrist and tear stains burned black against her face. Breaking streets and falling buildings. Anastarian lying fallen in a pool of his own blood. A towering monster of chain and bone rising from the corrupted waters of the Sunwell. The Demon that the monsters who’d destroyed her home answered to stepping from a black gateway. Muddled flashes caught between her crazed search; brief touches of her own awareness against the empty voids of not-people through the connection which bound her to them. To the will. To the Lich King. Not Nathanos. Not Nathanos. Not Nathanos. Where. Where! How long had it been? How many empty heads had she leapt between? Surely, he was out there somewhere in that sea of monsters.

Sylvanas finally snapped back to herself, and the dreadful reality of her situation, when she heard the Lich rattle “she’s searching for someone.” The Demon that commanded them had moved away now and the pair were staring at her. The former elf, the banshee, resisted the urge to recoil in the face of the fallen prince’s derisive sneer. “Do you hear the name she keeps repeating?”

“’Nathanos Marris’. The only Human to ever make it into the ranks of the Farstriders.” The Death Knight said. “Who would have thought, the ‘Lady Moon’ and a low born _peasant_. Disgraceful.”

Undead. She was undead. The little bastard had had the audacity not only to kill her but to rip her soul from her body and transform her into a Banshee. Force her to kill her own people. To help him destroy her home and defile the Sunwell. Sylvanas wanted to scream again. To destroy both the Death Knight and the Lich in front of her. But the domineering will prevented it. Arthas seemed to take pleasure in the way she writhed, futilely, against its command.

“But, I suppose, you deserve a reward, ‘Banshee Queen’, for your service in our campaign. I’m sure Marris is somewhere among the throngs of lesser footmen. The cannon fodder. Disposable.” He sneered again. “Beauty and the Ghoul. Like something out of a child’s tale.” He laughed, then, but any sign of amusement abruptly faded into cold cruelty. “If you’d like, I can arrange that he be brought to you.”

And brought, specifically, to Arthas’ attention. To punish in her stead if she ever stepped out of line. Recognizing the threat for what it was, Sylvanas bit back her pride and the boiling rage inside of her and bowed her head. “That’s unnecessary,” she gritted out, “my Lord. The only reward that I require is further service.”

Sylvanas would lay in wait, biding her time, until she’d either located Nathanos or confirmed for herself that he’d somehow escaped and a gap appeared in the Lich King’s control. And once it did, she’d strike with all the force and fury she could muster. Would destroy him, utterly and completely. Arthas Menethil would pay dearly for this.


	11. Chapter 11

At most, it had only been two weeks since Nathanos had left Eastweald behind to bring Stephon to safety, but already the land had begun to live up to what would soon be its name. Though the vast majority of it, for now, was still what could pass for green large patches of plagued brown were spreading rapidly outwards from the numerous roiling cauldrons which the Scourge forces had erected. Though the horizon line yet lacked the towering mushrooms which would one day rule the northern half of the area many of the trees below him had begun to display signs of root-deep sickness. The Scourge had already begun pushing west across the river and eastward from the destroyed capital locking Andorhal in a vice. He’d seen Paladins and Guardsmen attempting to hold the city when he’d flown over it but Nathanos knew the effort was a futile one.

Pushing the griffon he was mounted on to land, Nathanos dismounted on the road just on the other side of the bridge and dismissed the creature. Watching it hastily fly away and bank south back towards Stormwind.

It would be some time still before he’d have any hope of being reunited with his Lady, as the Lich King’s grip had yet begun to weaken, so it was best that he bided his time and advanced their interests in the meanwhile. He needed to exercise and learn the limits of his powers, to determine whether or not it would be useable as a wedge to manually pry even lesser ghouls free of Ner’zhul’s grip. And, if so, to begin amassing the initial forces which would make up the Forsaken. He needed to find a safe position for himself and hunker down in it until the time came where he had enough backing to set his sights on larger holdings of the Scourge: Corin’s Crossing, Stratholme, Deatholme, perhaps if he had the spare time to keep pushing north into the Ghostlands.

And his choice for that initial position was an obvious one.

Pausing for long enough to ensure there was nothing hostile lurking out of sight, the Blightcaller readied his bow and started down the road on foot. Straining his ears for any sounds. His eyes for any motion. Finding nothing but for the hiss of the wind and the slow falling leaves from the diseased and dying trees that lined the road. Breathing only for the purpose of collecting and sorting through scents for signs of danger, the Dark Ranger quickened his pace from a walk to a run. The lack of muscle strain on account of his curse allowing him to hold the speed for as long as he wished to.

Around one bend and then another. Off the main road and up the narrow trail which lead around to the Marris Stead. Here, Nathanos slowed to a stop. Keen eyes closely examining his property for signs of things amiss. The Abomination pieces were still scattered about but the corpses of the Paladins were gone: he infectious bite, no doubt, had turned the one he’d eaten from and the resultant ghoul had likely dragged the other off, as advertised by the thick smear of blood which lead away towards the far pasture.

Dismissing the matter as one of the little concern, Nathanos swiftly circled around the perimeter of the building and, once satisfied that nothing unwanted-living or otherwise-was lurking about in the area, ducked in through the unsecured front door.

Dried herbs still hung from the rack nailed above the kitchen window, dangling in front of the weak shafts of wan light which filtered in through the glass. A few of the doors of the wooden cabinets still hung open from where his mother, in her haste to gather supplies for their flight, hadn’t closed them.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved across them. Maneuvering around the jostled table and knocked over chairs. Passed the hearth, where once his family had gathered together on cold winters night and to exchange Winter’s veil gifts by the fire, now dark. Up the stairs, intending to check his room for anything he’d left behind during his last leave which might still stand to be of any use, only to pause outside the open door to Stephon’s room. Resisting for a moment further, then giving in with a sigh.

The hinges creaked as the door was nudged wider, allowing the Dark Ranger into the room. A scattering of belongings, deemed not to be of enough import to be taken with him in his flight. The dropped figurine of a soldier-an Archer, he could see now that he’d examined it more closely-still lying where it had been left against the floorboards. Thin white curtains rippled in the faint wind which filtered in through the open window.

Stepping over the fallen figurine-leaving it lying where it fell, unsure of which shelf it ought to be returned to-Nathanos made his way over to the window and pushed it shut with a thud. Flicking the latch back into position.

This was his home. Or, at least, it had been. The Marris Stead-its hollow corpse, slowly rotting-wasn’t a home anymore. But it would serve well enough as his base of operations, a den of sorts, while he started his work.

The first order of business to which he’d have to attend was making sure the area was secure, that there were no Scourge or Paladins squatting anywhere among the farm buildings or stables down amid the lower pastures. After that had been seen to, he’d need to find a companion to assist him in the hunt. Though undeath had robbed him of his nature magics there was still one animal with which he’d been able to bond: Plaguehounds. The Cult of the Damned, no doubt, had already begun their efforts at blighting the local wildlife. If there weren’t hounds yet, there would be soon: one more thing he’d have to keep an eye out for while examining the area. Once he’d found an Alpha and bonded with it, and by extension its pack, he could move onto using lesser undead to experiment with the limits of his powers.

By the time Sylvanas found him, Nathanos was determined, he’d be well on his way to conquering the Plaguelands and would have a proper army to lay at her feet.

Pausing only long enough to shut the door behind him, Nathanos left the room and descended the stairs. Exiting the Stead soon after and heading down the back slope of the hill on which the farmhouse sat, towards the barn.

The low pasture was still lush with grassland wildflowers, but, already, the land was beginning to die. The plants showing the first signs of withering, poisoned by the soil out of which they’d grown. Nathanos’ booted footsteps hissed through the grass as he prowled closer to the barn. Pausing outside to listen, then, when he heard nothing from inside, pulling the door open enough to slip through.

The ladder up to the hay loft led away into darkness. Farm tools had been stacked neatly in an alcove to his right, their iron skeletons ghoulish in the gloom. The stalls which had sheltered cows during the night and winter were empty; the building around him reduced to a gaping cavern which seemed to echo with its emptiness.

Nothing was there, living or dead. Nathanos moved on to the nearby stable where Reiner and Dale had been kept only to discover much the same. More nothingness; a forest of bridles and saddles hung from pegs on the wall.

He truly was alone.

The Dark Ranger wasn’t certain whether he’d have preferred to have found lurking enemies or not. But the prospect of such solitude was a daunting one; much like the hounds he used as his companions Nathanos was most comfortable running with a pack, however small.

His ‘pack’, to his knowledge, consisted of two people: Sylvanas and Stephon. And, soon, he knew, one of them would turn their back on him forever in favor of his own kind. The very thing Nathanos had encouraged him to do.

Light damn it all, he really needed to find those hounds! It would serve nothing to have him go mad from isolation! When you required the company of few, it seemed, you required the company of those few so much more. Nathanos wasn’t particularly pleased with the notion but there was nothing to be done about the matter.

Pushing such thoughts aside, the Dark Ranger reordered his mental list of things to do. The need to find the necessary supplies for him to craft his own arrows to replace the poorly weighted ones he’d purchased in Andorhal was high on the list: he’d need wood of suitable length and straightness to craft the shafts, blighthawk feather fletching and a supply of splitable rocks from which he could craft the heads in the absence of a forge. But what needed to come first was scouting the area, the whole of the area, and that meant finally taking the step to explore the question of just how far the powers of the Maw extended. Thus far, it had seemed capable of supplying him with whatever capability he required, though often in an unexpected way. Question was, would he be able to incite it to do what he wanted on demand?

If the answer was no, his other option was walking and that, Nathanos knew, would slow him down considerably.

Closing his eyes, drawing on the same focus he’d often employed while making long shots with his bow the Dark Ranger Lord reached within himself for where the power was curled. Languid in the absence of prey, like a massive sunning snake, the Maw observed him with a detached curiosity. Seeming to search him for intent, to read him as it had in Jintha’alor when, of its own accord-or so it had seemed-it had torn the unidentified silver threads from the Troll and transferred them to Stephon, pulling him back from the brink of death. Almost as if they were some corporeal form of life. Or soul.

Anima. The unfamiliar word diffused across his awareness, placed there by the power upon noticing the turn of his thoughts. Amused, almost, by the notion of him wanting to know it. To know what it could do. An adult, witnessing a child barely old enough to walk, attempting to mimic them.

The notion rankled him but the nettling agitation was muted beneath returned curiousity. _Do you want to know?_ A question, without a voice, spoken directly into his mind. The Maw wasn’t just a power, as he’d first thought! There was something behind it! Something darker than the Lich King. Older. Far, far worse. The Blightcaller’s first instinct was to recoil. To bolt and never dip so deep into the power’s lair again, but he growled his ground in spite of his better judgement. Though he’d have preferred to remain far removed from such things, not to flirt directly with the madness which had taken his Lady when even vague contact had threatened insanity, he also knew he didn’t have much choice, if any, in doing so.

The power that he’d gained was a necessary weapon in the arsenal of the Forsaken. Tantamount to their success against the Scourge and the Living. His own madness would be a small price to pay, especially considering that Sylvanas-he knew-could keep him in line.

The Maw, aware of his thoughts, didn’t wait for him to consciously answer its question. Pain lanced like an axe blade through his skull. A cascade of images and sound bombarding him with all the force of a boulder rolling down a mountain side. A towering black figure: the entity his Lady had made her deal with. More of the strange silver threads, the Anima, and how to use it. Abuse it. Grasp the threads. Pull them. Tie them. Cut them. Wrench them free and place them elsewhere. Gain command of life and death alike. Kill. Consume. Grow in power through feeding the Maw, and the creature on the other side. And, last of all, as the knowledge faded, a name.

Torghast.

Nathanos returned to himself on his knees outside the stables, shaking and gasping as the last wakes of the power swept through him. Forcing himself to his feet, the Dark Ranger called the Maw to him and it came to hand like an eager hound. Allowing him to reach into it. Up into the channels he hadn’t noticed before. The black smoke wrapping around him again, more tightly now, until it had all but melded to his skin.

And then his feet left the ground.

Bats and Wyverns and Dragons made the act of flight seem so easy, but Nathanos soon discovered that maneuvering through the air wasn’t as simple as picking a direction and proceeding onwards. Almost like being suspended in water, though with very little resistance, any shift in weight carried the very real threat of sending him spinning back to earth or careening into a tree. Spiraling haphazardly higher above the Marris Stead the Dark Ranger wobbled, spun and tumbled before finally managing to catch his balance, feeling uncomfortably similar to a foal that had managed to find itself out in the middle of a frozen lake. This ‘flying’ thing was going to take a considerable deal of ironing out before it was truly useable, but it would suit his current purpose well enough even in so rough a state.

Limping through the air like a shot gyrocopter wouldn’t be of much use in combat.

Rising higher until his back scraped the clouds, Nathanos leveled out and banked south along the mountainous border. Satisfied that, between how high up he was and the waning moonlight, anything looking up wouldn’t notice the trailing cloud of dark magic cutting its way across the sky.

Keen eyes scanning the earth far below, the Dark Ranger swooped around to the east and skirted the border. Swooping, unseen, high above the Scourge infested town of Corin’s Crossing, a handful of settlements still containing stubborn civilians, guard towers where Paladins clung to the remnants of order. Up North towards Stratholme; the waning forest outside the original source of Lordaeron’s contamination, though it had since been thought contained, beginning to transition from trees to towering mushrooms. Shambling between the trees were the desiccated forms of ghouls and skeletons. Thudding down the curving roads were more abominations, smaller than Rammstein, dragging their hooks. Running together, weaving through the underbrush, was a familiar looking pack of hounds.

At the sight of the Plaguehounds Nathanos dove; descending rapidly until he was nearly brushing the treetops but not yet daring to dip beneath. Trailing the hounds from above. Watching them duck and bob and run together, tracking the scent of a wounded deer. Closing in for the kill and then proceeding to rip the poor beast apart.

Poised on a branch he’d only narrowly managed to perch on without falling, Nathanos watched them eat. The way they interacted: a group of six hounds in total, three green two orange and one blue. The blue one, obviously, was the Alpha. The one that he’d have to approach, back at their den, and gain the trust of. Once he’d done so the entire pack would fall in line.

The deer was little more than bone, now. The hounds were moving on. Circling back around to the west. Silently, Nathanos followed from above. Watching them disappear into the mouth of a cave.

Touching down-knee almost buckling at the sudden transition to solid ground-the Dark Ranger stopped. And waited.

Soon enough, a series of low growls echoed out of the darkness. He saw the shadows first. Then the eyeshine. The hounds slinking towards him, bellies scraping the ground and teeth on full display. Nathanos stood his ground and allowed them to approach, holding their gaze. Unblinking.

The green one reached him first and made a false rush at his left. The orange one snarling ferociously and snapping its teeth at his ankles. Seeming to realize he wouldn’t be intimidated, the pair circled around to behind him to bar his retreat and allowed Nathanos forward.

Without hesitation the Dark Ranger proceeded forwards, passed the three other hounds and up to where the blue one was curled atop an outcropping of rock. The Plaguehound recognized his challenge instantly and rose to its feet. Teeth bared in its black gums. Eyes set into a burning glare. Nathanos coiled down into a defensive posture a moment before the animal sprung. Gnashing teeth aiming for his throat.

The undead caught the hound around the jaws but its four paws slammed into his chest. The other hounds advancing forward, slowly; a tightening noose of claws and fangs.

The Plaguehound shook itself free and managed to clamp down on his hand. Nathanos seized it by the scruff and threw his weight up and sideways. Rolling overtop of the hound and pinning it there. Legs wrapped around its torso. One hand planted on its barrel chest and the other on the bottom of its jaw.

Finally, seeming to resign itself to death, the blue hound stopped struggling and relaxed against the stone floor. Flipping over and staring at him in bewildered surprise when he released his hold and let it up.

Cautiously, mindful not to startle it into attempting to bite off his fingers again, Nathanos extended his hand towards the hound. Almost touching the animal, but stopping just short. The blue hound stared at him for a long moment, then leaned forward to scent him before pushing its head into his palm. The other five moving in to investigate for themselves, the press of wet noses and hook teeth into his skin a welcome familiarity.

“Rancor,” he addressed the blue hound, then the others each in turn, “Rend, Animus, Spite, Frenzy, Savage.”

With their names pronounced, the six hounds-Rancor leading the way at Nathanos’ side-followed their new master out of the cave where they’d been denning and back into the open air. The Dark Ranger charting a path back towards the Marris Stead.


	12. Chapter 12

He’d found a new use for the barn, at least, as a denning place for his hounds. Immediately upon arriving on their new grounds, Rancor and his little pack had taken to ranging out into the far pastures and, after nosing about into every corner and nook, had settled on the building as a replacement cave. A fact which worked well enough for Nathanos; even while he’d lived the Dark Ranger had kept the hounds he used for hunting and battle in an outdoor kennel. Scrip, being the family pet, had been the sole exception. He wasn’t exactly seeking to change that now.

With the matter of animal companions sorted out, the soon to be King of the Forsaken had spent the next day and a half drawing up and perfecting a map from memory. Marking out the Scourge fortifications with skulls and resistance forces-Alliance, Forest Troll, Argent and Scarlet-with labeled points. Pathing out a detailed road map of his next handful of moves, anticipating Arthas’ retaliation, as well as that of the Living, as best he could. Now, at near mid-day, his next course of action would be to set his sights on nearby Darrowshire and begin the most important step of his initial plans, while keeping an eye out for the necessary materials to begin crafting his own arrows.

Capping the inkwell he’d managed to scrounge from among the belongings which had been left behind in his mother’s mad rush to pack, Nathanos set the map he’d drawn aside and rose from his seat at the kitchen table. Joints cracking after so long unused but not delivering the satisfaction it once would have. Hefting his bow from where he’d left it leaned against his chair and swinging his half full quiver over his back, he thudded out the door.

The curling grass hissed against the soles of his mail boots as he made his way down the hill on which the farmhouse sat and out across the far pasture. The dark form of the barn growing steadily larger as they approached until it was looming high above him. The door had been left partially ajar to allow the Plaguehounds to pass in and out at will. Nathanos reached out and pushed it wide, the wooden panes trundling down their rusted track, and stepped into the dark hay-lined interior.

Rend and Animus had curled together in a pile of passably dry straw off to his right and looked up at his entrance. Spite and Savage were entertaining themselves with a length of rope they’d found lying about somewhere on the property, growling and snarling-though without any real bite-as they each attempted to pull the rope from the other’s grasp. Frenzy’s head was buried in a pile of standing rainwater, though the larger of the two orange hounds raised his tail in acknowledgement of his appearance.

Rancor trotted over from the shadowed reaches of the barn and lowered himself onto his haunches at Nathanos’ feet. Ears perked forward and awaiting orders.

The Dark Ranger scratched behind the hound’s ears before clicking sharply and turning to exit the barn once more. The animal, low to the dying grass, slinking behind as Nathanos made his way over to where their former cart horse had been buried some eight years before. The beast would be little more than bones, now, but it would serve his purposes well enough.

Rancor sat dutifully beside him and kept silent as Nathanos reached not for the Maw, this time, but for his own dark core. Drawing on the necromantic magics which Sylvanas had taught him and directing it down into the earth before him. Jagged tendrils of green and purple magic gouging into the leaf strewn ground. The soil splitting as the animal was drawn from the grave. Pulling itself forward up into the air until it stood, in all its fetid glory, before him. A ghastly mount fit for a King of the Damned: fully skeletal and bleeding ink-black shadows from its empty eye sockets and the cavity within its ribcage.

Satisfied that the beast would suffice, Nathanos grabbed a firm hold on one of its protruding vertebrae and swung himself up onto its back. Prodding the terrible mount forward and turning back towards the road. Riding across the pasture at a steady gallop with the hound at his side. Turning down the hill towards Darrowshire.

The little town on the bank of the calm waters of Lake Darrowmere, in view of the ominous form of Scholomance Academy for Necromancy, had been devastated; between the ruined buildings and the Scourge banner fluttering in the wind beside the broken fountain, it looked little different than the last time he’d been there, looking to collect items of…interest.

But the Libram and Shield of a pair of fools who’d thought themselves heroes wasn’t what he’d come for. It was the people who’d once lived there. Or, what was left of them.

In Scourge hierarchy, there was no lower creature than the standard ghoul. Mindless. Ferocious. Fast. Dangerous alone and deadly in large numbers but ultimately expendable. Cannon fodder. He’d been one himself, after Rammstein’s hook had killed him. Until Sylvanas had saved him. Pulled him back from thoughtless fog. Restoring them to something more capable of thought was, thereby, possible, but beyond his point of focus for the time being: all he was here for now was to determine whether he could use the Maw to replace the will of the Lich King with his own.

Never mind that, at current, ghouls and geists both would be of use along with his hounds in the interim of creating proper Forsaken.

Nathanos’ red eyes focused on a hint of motion to his left. Landing a moment later on a ghoul waddling aimlessly around the foot of the inn. With a clipped command to the hound to stay put, the Dark Lord swung down from the back of the skeletal horse and notched an arrow on the bowstring. Taking careful aim and firing. Putting an arrow through the creature’s leg and immobilizing it. Watching the minor undead toppled over and lay there uselessly, able only to pitifully wave its desiccated arms as Nathanos approached. Coming to a stop standing above it, staring into its milky eyes. At the mangled bonds of anima and necromancy. Mentally ceasing hold of the proper channel and focusing the full force of his will onto it. Meeting with the cold force of another mind and pushing, hard. The frigid grip coming free before the other presence could identify him or attempt to resist. Imprinting his own command in the hollow left behind before he withdrew.

The ghoul had stopped struggling and lay there, staring up at him with all the blankness typical of its kind. When it registered his attention, it opened its mouth with the pop of unused muscles and rattled a disjointed “Master…free” which Nathanos answered by ripping the arrow from its knee. Watching it shamble back onto its feet and hunch there, waiting for his orders.

The Dark Lord drew himself up to his full height. “Come.” He said. “We’ll free the rest of your…kin. Your ilk will serve well as my eyes for the time being.”

With the aid of the hound and the ever-increasing number of ghouls, Nathanos was able to clear the entire town in good enough time for the matter to be considered respectable. And with only a single arrow left in the quiver on his back he could turn his attention, at last, to gathering the materials necessary for arrow craft.

Dismissing the small mob of lesser undead which had gathered around him and calling the hound, he pulled himself up into the saddle once again and continued down the road.

Gathering feathers for fletching from the blighthawks in the area would take time: after slathering some of the better perching branches with bird glue, the Dark Ranger moved on to selecting the best of the fallen bits of timber for fashioning into the shafts of arrows. The stones for chipping into heads could be gathered when the next he found himself on Darrowmere’s shores: backtracking now would have meant turning his back on the conspicuous glow of a fire up ahead.

Dismounting and leaving horse and hound hidden in the darkened trees Nathanos crept forward through the gnarled brush like a stalking wolf. Pausing once the fire and the Paladin beside it, had come into proper view. Smirking and pulling his hood further down over his face, Nathanos straightened up and after clicking Rancor back beside him, strode into the clearing.

“Room by your fire, boy?” he grunted. “My hound, at least, could use the warmth.”

Darion Mograin all but leapt out of his skin, face paling to near the color of ash. Hand going for the hilt of the sword beside him but stopping halfway. Unsure of what to make of the dark figure which had materialized before him like a shade. Clad in black armor adorned with skulls and spines. Red eyes glinting from the depths of his cowl like dying embers. His first thought was ‘demon’ for surely nothing which had ever been human could have eyes like that. But when he looked again at the stillness of him, the blue tinge of what little skin he could see he knew that this, once, had been a living man.

Undead, but intelligent. Sentient, even, like Arthas. Yet uninclined, it seemed, at least for the time being, towards harming him given that it had announced itself. Still, the thought of letting such an unnatural thing near him was foolish.

But curiosity won out in the young defecting Scarlet. “There’s room if you can take a turn at watch, Stranger.”

The brief flash of white teeth as the dark man parted from the tree line. Moving with the fluid slink of an Elven hunter, though his figure was too broad to be Quel’dorei. His accent clearly Lordaeric, like his; peasant speak. Sitting heavily beside the fire and commanding the hound to rest, he shrugged a bow-a heavy weapon, with spine laden arms of sturdy yew-from his shoulders and propped it against his leg. Leaving the blades which he carried attached firmly at his belt.

“You were a Ranger.” He blurted it out without meaning to. The stranger paused in the act of pulling a thing knife from within the contours of his boot.

“Once.” Came the stiff reply. The undead had resumed what he’d been doing before his sudden interruption; pulling the knife free and beginning to whittle at the body of one of the lengths of wood which he’d arrived with. Sure, short strokes which knocked free bark and sheared off cankers.

“Who were you?”

He paused again, this time to glare at him. “The same man I am currently.” The stranger snapped. “And if you’re not aware of whom that is, you’ve lived beneath a rock. There are only so many Human Farstriders.”

“The Scarlet Crusade aren’t exactly…in touch.” Darion admitted squirming slightly in discomfort beneath the fallen Ranger’s pinning gaze. “Especially under my brother.”

Another grunt, this one sounding considerably disinterested.

“Who are you, then? You didn’t answer my question.”

Seeming satisfied with the straightness of the new formed shaft, the man picked up another piece and started again. “I have a lot of names, according to whom you ask. Much like death is known by different names to different cultures. Titles mean little in the end.” He seemed, for a moment, to have finished speaking but just as Darion was about to point out that that answer had hardly been helpful, he said “you may call me the Holly King, if you must call me something when you reiterate this story later.”

“That old child’s tale?” he frowned. “Then, who’s the Oak King?”

“Precisely whom you’d think, little Paladin.” He said. “Winter comes for Arthas Menethil. Given time enough I’ll have my revenge, as will all my people.”

“Nothing like a common enemy.” Another grunt. “What are you, if I might be allowed to ask such a thing? Admittedly we don’t know all that much about the undead, but I’ve never heard of a former human with eyes like yours.”

“Red eyes are the mark of a Banshee or Specter possessing or otherwise bound to their former body.”

“So…you’re a Specter?” he asked. “A ghost?”

The fallen Ranger stared at him for a long time before he answered again. “I,” he said, “am a Fury. The hunter of the damned. Warden of the Jailor. And you, Mograine, have asked more than your fair share of questions.” Grinning viciously at the way the youth recoiled in surprise, he canted his head. “Don’t look so shocked, boy. Death knows many things.”

The Paladin’s eyes narrowed. “What else do you know about me?”

“How you’ll die. When. And the fate that you’ll meet after.” A devil’s purr, amusement crinkling around his eyes; had he been living, his words not quite so vicious, he might have thought the expression kind. “I could tell you. But you don’t wish to know and I haven’t the desire to deal with a Human driven mad! Let us change the subject.”

“To what?” Darion demanded.

“Where are you headed? And what are you doing out here, all alone? At night.” He drawled. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that such a thing is dangerous for a pretty little thing?”

“Pretty?” he spluttered.

“To a ghoul, perhaps.” Was the biting response. “I prefer Elven women myself.”

Darion made an exasperated noise, aware the gravelly rumble from across the fire was the undead laughing at him.

“Were you like this when you lived?”

The slight snap in his tone only seemed to amuse the man more. “Not quite as bad.” He said. “But what of you, little Paladin? Are you going to answer my question or not?”

“What are you going to do with that information?” Most might have quailed at the sharp defensiveness in his tone, the coiling of his posture, but the so called ‘Holly King’ remained as solid as a rock.

“Very little, if anything at all.” He drawled. “Unlike Arthas, I’ve little concern for the living and want, only, to achieve vengeance and be left alone.”

Darion suspected that to be at least partially a lie. “Some within the Scarlet Crusade aren’t pleased with its direction and we’re looking to break away. But we need help to do it.”

Another growling rumble as the other man stowed his knife again. “Have fun with Garithos, the racist trogg.”

“You know of him?”

Red eyes fixed him in a scorching glare. “Hard not to when I was a representative of Lordaeron in an allied Kingdom of non-humans and he never wasted an opportunity to play ‘hunt down Nathanos’ and attempt to convince me that Elves would be our downfall.” A harsh snort. “How shocked he must have been to realize our real downfall was our own fucking Prince.”

The Plaguehound beside him snorted. Its maw full of sharp teeth glinting in the firelight. The hooded man, whom he now knew to be named Nathanos, was staring at him again and Darion couldn’t help but find himself uncomfortable.

“It’s gotten late, Scarlet, and the living need their rest.” He rumbled. “I’ll keep watch a while more. Consider it thanks for a moment of rest.”

“And why should I trust you not to kill me in my sleep?”

“Because I wouldn’t have wasted my time blathering if I’d intended to kill you.” He said. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Darion didn’t doubt that much. “Just how long do you intend to stay?”

“Long enough you needn’t worry about getting your face chewed off in your sleep.” Came the dismissive response. “A shift at watch was, after all, a stipulation of my hound’s comfort. And, given I no longer require sleep, I’ve little better to do while I sand my shaft.”

There was, Darion felt sure, a euphemism in their somewhere but he didn’t feel like this was the proper situation to be excavating such things.

Silence descended over their little camp, broken only by the crackling of the fire the rattle of the blade against wood and occasional snuffles from the sleeping hound. The young Scarlet still hadn’t fully gotten over the discomfort of having a-presumably powerful-undead so close by but tried to make himself comfortable none the less. Propping himself against his sword and resting his chin on his chest. Keeping as close an eye on his company as possible, determined to keep himself awake.

But, ultimately, exhaustion won the battle.

When Darion woke up the next morning the fire had died down to cold, grey ashes and the clearing where he’d made camp was empty. A bird was chirping, somewhere far off in the distance. The stranger, if he’d truly existed at all, was gone, along with his fiery hound, and had left no trace behind. Forcing all thoughts of the matter aside, at least for the time being, Darion gathered up what few things he’d brought with him and continued on his way. Tyrosus and the others would be expecting his return, after all, so he couldn’t afford to waste time in approaching the last remaining official of Lordaeron’s military.

Which, unfortunately, as the mysterious ‘Nathanos’ had correctly noted, meant Othmar Garithos-who, apparently, was a ‘racist Trogg’-and, thereby, likely would have gotten along pretty well with Renault. Pulling himself up into the saddle, Darion swung his horse around and continued down the road. Keeping a careful eye out for undead and wild animals and finally, at long last, managing to reach the current base of the Alliance Resistance.

Had he been able to spare such mental effort Darion likely could have recalled the name of the little town, but as it was, he had bigger concerns. His horse snorted and tossed its mane, shod hooves clacking against the cobbled stones. His brown eyes scanning over the gathered forces there: Humans, whom he assumed were Garithos’ men in some form or another, were the largest presence but they weren’t alone. Dwarven mountaineers, bushy bearded and armed with gleaming blunder busses, and High Elven Magisters, tall and ethereal looking in their red and violet robes, were present as well but the three groups kept to themselves. There seemed to be an odd tension present there which, given the clear and immediately present threat of the Scourge, the young Paladin couldn’t help but find untoward but he also supposed it wasn’t his business.

“You there, Scarlet!” A gruff voice called from nearby. Darion’s head turning and his gaze falling on the form of an approaching knight. “What are you doing here? We haven’t time or energy for trouble with your Crusade.”

“Trouble with the Crusade happens to be why I’m here.” Darion pulled his mount to a stop. “I’m Darion Mograine and, well…a number among us aren’t particularly pleased with the recent turn of things. But defection would require a place for us to go after, especially with things as they are now. And we figured that your Commander could use the extra hands.”

The Knight grunted in response and appeared to consider his words for a moment before barking at a nearby footman and sending him off. Presumably to speak with Garithos. The man returned within a handful of minutes and spoke with the Knight in hushed whispers. Finally, the man turned to look at him again.

“Don’t think we trust you, Scarlet. Far from it. But you’re right in your observation that we need help.” He said. “Tell your fellow ‘deserters’ that Garithos will appreciate any aid that you can lend.”

Though not direct, the dismissal was clear. Gripping the reins tightly in hand, the young Paladin turned his horse around and started back down the road.


	13. Chapter 13

The flickering firelight danced against the walls of the Marris Stead’s all but empty kitchen, throwing strange shapes across the molding and plunging the dark figure seated at the table into even deeper shadow. A pile of jagged shards, knocked from stones which he’d collected from the shores of the nearby lake and river, sat beside his hand. The blighted birds he’d defeathered for fletching had been fed to his hounds. After hours spent in place there, chipping and cutting and winding with twine he’d woven from plant fibers the Blightcaller, at long last, had finished crafting the last of his new set of arrows. Primitive, by comparison to his normal craft. Tipped in stone like a Troll’s would be. They’d work, he ultimately decided, shoving them into his quiver before slinging it over his broad shoulders. It had been just over a month since he’d encountered Mograine on the road and only now had he finished something so necessary; it irked him, but so be it. What was done was done. He had better things to concern himself with now.

Calling harshly to his hounds as he thudded out the front door, Nathanos swung himself up onto the back of his horse and started down the road. Navigating towards his destination-a nearby Thuzadin encampment-with a part of his attention whilst reaching out for the ghouls and geist he’d gathered. Catching hold of the strands of Anima he’d left behind. Drawing them back to him like a puppeteer would a pack of marionettes. The shadows around him beginning to twitch and tremble as they came. First in pairs. Then in dozens. Though he’d yet to attempt to wrench something free of the Lich King’s grasp which could pass on a proper Forsaken he felt comfortable enough, now, in the extent of his capabilities to begin to try. But, first, the group of Necromancer who’d had the nerve to settle for to close to him for his liking needed dealt with.

Not a matter difficultly done, at least. And, if nothing else, it would give him a convenient outlet for his pent-up frustrations.

The hooves of his risen steed thudded heavily against the broken cobbles of the road. The dried-out leaves and fallen branches from the dying trees crunching beneath its passage as the Dark Ranger astride it moved off the road into a copse of withering trees.

He could smell the plague cauldron before he saw it. The boiling of the sickening mixture and the rattling of the heavy chains which held it down carrying to him on the wind. Rancor was stood stalk still beside him, burning eyes set forward. The other hounds had coiled down until their scaled bellies brushed the curling grass, teeth bared and hackles raised.

From astride his mount hidden in the retreating tree line Nathanos observed the quarry before him. Thuzadin necromancers going about their damnable business. Thinking nothing of the ghouls and geists moving about them. Unaware, yet, that they answered to a different King. A small camp, Nathanos noted. Perhaps 15 of them in total, in addition to a handful of skeletal minions.

Simply done, in the end, but an outlet none the less. At this point, Nathanos would take what he could get.

They were isolated, here, from other Scourge holdings. There would be no time for aid to come. His attack would be swift, brutal, and overwhelming and once he was finished there’d be nothing left.

Yanking sharply on the reigns prompted the mount beneath him to rear up and shriek. The hounds beside him barreling forward towards the little camp, barking and snarling, as the necromancers turned towards him in surprise. The lesser undead which had formerly been docile turning on them at a quick command. Everything dissolving into a mad panic as Nathanos charged forward on the back of his steed. Closing the distance in a matter of seconds. Trampling one of the Thuzadin who weren’t quick enough to move beneath sharp hooves. His axe a silver arc in the sickly moonlight. The edge staining red with blood. Shadow magic hissing, ultimately futilely, through the air. The Maw pressing hard and hungry against his breast, lunging forward the moment it was let free.

The battle was over too swiftly. A decisive victory lying before him in only moments.

The Dark Lord pulled the mount around to a stop in front of the steps which led up to the rocking cauldron and dismounted. His heavy, boot clad steps pinging off the metal structure beneath him as he approached. Peering down over the curled lip and into the bubbling mess within.

Briefly, before being discarded, Nathanos considered taking a sample of it with him. He wasn’t an apothecary, had never bothered to learn much about the plague and its production and had no idea how to keep it until he could find Putris, or any apothecary for that matter.

Though the matter of controlling the spineless wretch would be another problem all together.

Cutting the chains free at their links, Nathanos aimed a powerful kick at the lip of the cauldron. It tipped with a crash, its contents spilling across the grass. It bubbled and hissed as it sunk into the ground. What little of the surrounding foliage which wasn’t already dead immediately beginning to wither.

Satisfied with his work there and with nothing left to do Nathanos dismissed the gathered undead, whistled to his hounds and swung back up into the saddle. Prodding the horse away into the night.

It had been weeks, now, since the fall of Silvermoon before the Scourge. Perhaps months, even, but Sylvanas couldn’t tell how many. Arthas had been busy, continuing to scour the remnants of what would have been his Kingdom and overseeing the creation of a Scourge stronghold beneath the ruins of Lordaeron, as had she, both in continuing the-as of yet unrewarded-pursuit of Nathanos amid the turned masses and in rising in rank amid the Scourge’s forces until, at last, she’d come to be viewed by the fallen Prince as one of his most trusted lieutenants.

That trust, soon enough, would be her greatest weapon.

For now, the Banshee Queen found herself simply drifting through the broken halls in silence without any particular direction. Eavesdropping on the man-child and the arch lich which had come to be his near constant companion hadn’t been her intent, but Sylvanas had never been one to allow opportunities to slip through her fingers so when she heard Arthas’ voice echoing from the far end of a hallway she stopped.

“-need to know what’s going on!” He sounded agitated. The Banshee Queen could imagine him pacing back and forth; the image brought a cruel smile to her face.

“I don’t know what’s going on. No one does. Not even the Master.” That was Kel Thuzad, sounding both calm and somewhat exasperated.

“This just started?”

“No. It’s been going on for some time now.”

“Ghouls and geists have been vanishing, the Lich King cannot reconnect with them, and _no one told me_ until now?”

“There were matters of greater concern.” The Arch Lich said.

“And that’s changed now?” he snapped.

“A camp of my Thuzadin was attacked. Wiped out. But for one survivor.”

A Paladin, or else a group formed from what called itself the ‘Alliance Resistance’ were more than likely responsible, then. Still, Sylvanas retained her interest and drifted a bit closer.

A slight shuffling sound as the ‘survivor’ stepped forward.

“Don’t waste your Lord’s time with sniveling, wretch!” Arthas snarled. “What happened?”

“W-We were doing as you ordered, Sire.” The necromancer whimpered. “The ghouls and geists in the area, they turned on us when he appeared. Obeyed him as he rode through our camp astride a skeletal horse and cut us down. The pack of blighthounds with him ran down the ones that tried to flee. The magic he wielded we’d never seen before.”

“’He’. ‘He’. You keep saying _‘He’_!” Arthas snapped. “Who is ‘He’?”

“I don’t know, my Liege.” He said. “He was a hunter, clad in black. Corporeal and Human, not an Elf, but his eyes were the burning red of a Banshee.”

“And this ‘magic’ that he wielded?” the Death Knight spat.

“He breathed shadows, Sire. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

A man with hounds? A hunter with hounds? Could it be? No, surely not; if Nathanos wasn’t among the Scourge then he yet lived, or else had been left the peace of death which she herself had been denied. This new comer, however, was something which she’d have to keep an eye on. The ‘shadow breather’ and his mutts would either prove an ally in her plans or a threat which needed to be eradicated.

Given his robbery of lesser undead from the Lich King’s grasp, it seemed he was attempting to build an army of his own. ‘Threat’, thereby, seemed far more likely.

“It would seem that this red eyed man is responsible for the missing undead.” Kel’thuzad said. “It’s best someone investigate the places where they went missing. We may be able to discover the nature of this strange magic through residual traces left behind.”

“I’ll go myself. Little point in throwing more fodder to this upstart.”

“Arthas, you’re powerful-of course, you’re the Master’s champion-but another power has almost certainly intervened here. One perhaps beyond our Lord.” The Arch Lich said. “It’s unwise to go alone.”

“The Banshee Queen will accompany me.” Heavy footsteps. The shriek of hinges. Sylvanas had only moments to register what that meant and make herself look as if she hadn’t been observing matters before the Death Knight rounded the corner and saw her. “Fortuitous that I’d find you so simply. Eavesdropping?”

Sylvanas kept her face carefully blank. “I’m afraid I’m not certain what you mean, my Lord.”

He sneered. “I’ll allow you to retain that claim.”

_Oh, how merciful._ Sylvanas bit back a sneer of her own. “You were seeking me?”

“There’s a challenger to my right to rule.” He said. “The lessers have been vanishing; something has been ripping them away from the Master’s command. He’s attacked the Thuzadin and disrupted our operation in the remnant of Eastweald. I want him stopped. You’re to assist me in the hunt.”

“Of course, Sire.” Hopefully this rebellious undead, freed from his moorings in much the same way she hoped to be, would be wise enough to stay out of Arthas’ sight or else would prove swift enough to outrun him. The thorn he posed in the Lich King’s side was a valuable asset to her needs. “I’m behind you.” Soon enough, with a knife in her hand.

“Come, then.” He swept away from her, tattered cloak fluttering. “We’ve a great deal of traveling to do before we arrive on the scene.”

So, they set out, Arthas astride Invincible and Sylvanas floating behind, leaving the ruined capital behind and charting a course across the Glade to the east. Crossing the Throndroril after what seemed a small eternity. A swell of pain and sentimental longing rising up ferociously within her as they passed the little dirt trail which lead away up to the Marris Stead.

Nathanos, before they parted, had sworn that he’d return to her. She, after her forceable reanimation, had sworn to herself that she would find him. And she would. If he’d been Scourged, a possibility which looked ever less likely every day, she’d free him. If he’d fallen, she’d raise him. If he’d survived, she’d turn him. Her love wouldn’t deny her. Nor would he begrudge her his eternal companionship.

Every Queen needed a King, and she would settle for no one else.

The little road up to that familiar hill fell away behind them. They turned off the road and soon arrived in the dismantled Thuzadin camp; the ground was turned over by sharp hooves and running feet. An upturned plague cauldron spilling its contents across the ground.

Arthas dismounted and crouched beside a fallen Necromancer. Frosted eyes narrowed. Brows drawn together. “Their life force has been devoured. Rather similar to what occurred when the Legion used mortals to power their portals.”

“We’re dealing with a Demon, then?” Sylvanas asked. That would be another explanation for the reported color of the Shadow Breather’s eyes; a demon possessed corpse or Nathrezim in disguise.

They had just recently rid themselves of the Dread Lords. Perhaps it was one of them.

“Similar, I said. Not the same.” He snapped. “Whatever power this is, it’s not the Legion. The Master would recognize it if it were.”

“Perhaps they have more testimony.” Sylvanas said. “Can they be raised?”

“Only by the thing that did this, if at all.” Frustration was clear as day in the Death Knight’s voice. “It would have to disgorge what it consumed to do so. Either willingly, or by force.”

Who, or more importantly what, was responsible for this? As much as the additional distraction would aid her in her efforts if this new element was equally as dangerous, or even more so, as Arthas. Perhaps it was better to see him dealt with after all. “It would seem that tracks were left behind.” A mixture of hoof and paw prints which led away into the dark.

The Death Knight’s glowing blue eyes fell on the indicated tracks and he straightened. Gripping Frostmourne tightly in hand. “We follow them,” he grunted, calling the horse back to his side, “and hunt this upstart down. Forget the potential uses this power might have. I want whatever is responsible for this eliminated.”

Threats, clearly, weren’t something the self-named King of the ruin he’d wrought took well to. Nor was the concept of something potentially more powerful than him. Perhaps they’d simply kill each other, and she’d be free of them both in one fell swoop.

“You can track them?”

She nodded. “I was a Farstrider in life. Death has not robbed me of those skills.”

“Lead on, then.”

The hoof and paw prints lead away into the retreating forest for a couple hundred yards before ending, rather abruptly, in the horse which had made them. Its rider, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Before either of them could comment on the matter the familiar hiss of an arrow reached her ears. The sharpened head-stone, by the sound of it-pinging harshly off the saronite breastplate Arthas wore. A second, then a third, following immediately after. Both looked up in the direction they’d come from in time to see a dark streak go sailing from the branch it had been perched on to another. Darting away into the night.

“There he is!” Arthas snarled, digging his heels into Invincible’s sides and sending the horse rocketing forwards. Sylvanas rushing to follow.

The dark form was still ahead of them. Still in the trees. Vaulting from branch to branch so swiftly, and with his black cloak fluttering like wings in his wake, that he looked like a great raven.

Arthas growled, unable to reach his quarry from the ground, but the fleeing man had no such qualms with his bow. Spinning in his perch to fire once again before proceeding.

“You can’t run all night, damn you!” The Death Knight roared. “This forest doesn’t last forever!”

Arthas knew it. So did Sylvanas. And so, Sylvanas knew, did the fleeing shadow overhead. He, much as she had done in the forests of Quel’thalas, was luring the Death Knight to the position where he wanted him. And Arthas, yet again, had no idea.

Fool.

The trees ended in a rocky clifftop over the Throndroril. Dismounting from the canopy the undead they’d been chasing crested the peak of the bluff and turned to face them. It was then that Sylvanas got her first clear look.

Fine made armor, black as the night around them and adorned with skulls and spines. A brutal long bow strung in sinew was slung across his broad shoulders, alongside a leather quiver. The hood over his head concealed his features, aside from the eyes that flowed like the pits of hell itself. The ease of his posture made it plain, to her, that he was not as trapped as he appeared. A fact which, once again, Arthas failed to register as he charged forward with Frostmourne raised.

At the last possible moment, the dark figure pounced forward to meet him. His form dissipating into a cloud of black mist only to reform on the other side. Spinning and firing a black arrow from his bow. Breaking the stone beside Invincible’s hooves and sending both horse and man tumbling into the river below with a howl.

And, like that, she found herself alone with the red eyed stranger. The black clad man whose features she could make out nothing of beneath the hood he wore. Who’d attacked the Scourge before and had no way of knowing she didn’t consider herself allied with them. A soul eater against which, especially in her current form-without a body to protect her-she had no defense against. For a long moment he didn’t move. Simply staring at her in silence. Then, making a grumbling sound low in the back of his throat, he turned to walk away. It was then, as he was disappearing back into the trees, not on horseback but leaving none the less, that she realized who he was.

“_Nathanos!”_ Surprise. Relief. Confusion. He hadn’t made it out. Hadn’t escaped the Scourge. But he’d bucked off the Lich King’s control so entirely that he was able to outright attack their holdings in the area.

Because he’d made a deal with something else. Something unfathomable and dark. Something which the Lich King himself seemed to fear. Something which, no doubt, was so much worse.

He stopped and turned his head enough to look back at her. Red eyes-what had been done to him to make him look that way? What horrible things had whatever power he’d sided with wrought on the man she loved?-glowing in the gloom. “Not yet.” Beneath the distortion of undeath, the rumble of his voice was still the same.

Before Sylvanas could speak, demand to know what he meant or at least demand that he stayed, that he didn’t leave her again, he was gone. Dissolving into black mist once more and rising up into the clouds.

Sylvanas tamped down on the urge to chase him before the Lich King could do so, clutching the knowledge that Nathanos was beyond Arthas’ reach to harm-far beyond it, judging by how easily he tipped him into the river below-like a talisman against evil, and floated down over the edge of the cliff which Arthas had fallen from.

The water logged Death Knight had just finished lugging Invincible out of the water.

“That bastard will pay for this! I won’t allow him to get away with humiliating me like that!” Arthas looked half crazed, hair-lank and dripping-framing his face and eyes ablaze. “I’ll see to it that Kel’thuzad handles hunting him down!”

“Kel’thuzad?” The Arch Lich would hardly pose a threat to Nathanos when Arthas himself hadn’t. “Why not yourself?”

The Death Knight snarled, his plate boots sloshing softly as he got to his feet. “I’d love nothing more than to do so, to rip him apart and feed his soul to Frostmourne, but the Master has just informed me I’ve duties in Kalimdor. I’m off to retrieve the Skull of Gul’dan.”

So, he’d be halfway across the world, presumably for an extended period? It appeared that things were beginning to align themselves in her favor. “You’re leaving immediately?”

“And you’re to return to Lordaeron and assist Kel’thuzad in holding our ground.” He said. “Am I clear?”

“Crystal, Sire.” Sylvanas said, watching the Death Knight begin to ride away.

‘Not yet.’ Nathanos had said. Not yet, but soon. Soon she’d be free of the chains that that fool of a Prince had thought to capture her in, as he was, and would reunite with her love. Lending him her aid against the Scourge.

Together, they’d see to it that Arthas, Kel’thuzad and the Lich King learned the meaning of fear.


	14. Chapter 14

Rancor was waiting for him atop the steps of the Marris Stead when he returned, the Plaguehound’s ears flicking in greeting as he touched down against the earth. Pausing for long enough to ensure that none of his arrows had been dropped along the way, Nathanos approached the blue hound and addressed it.

“The others are down at the barn?”

Rancor grunted.

“You led the lessers back as well?”

A sneeze.

“Well done.” He said. The praise prompting the hound to thud its stubby tail against the wooden steps beneath it. “I’d known that it was only a matter of time before the Lich King cottoned on to what was going on. Arthas’ appearance confirms matters. Things are proceeding according to plan, for the most part.”

The hound canted its head and whined.

“I’d hoped not to cross my Lady’s path until everything was in place.” He said. “I’d have preferred not to have to walk away from her again. But no matter. It won’t be long now. In the meantime, I’d best move on to the next stage.”

Rancor moved aside to allow Nathanos to enter the house, slipping through the entrance as the door banged shut behind the Dark Ranger.

“With Arthas soon to be afield fiddling with Illidan, an important window of opportunity opens in which I’ll be able to act with near impunity from banal interference. But it opens that same window for Sylvanas to regain her body and shake off his reigns. I want everything in place, at least for the most part, when she finds me again.” Shrugging off the heavy bow across his shoulders, he carefully unstrung it and propped the weapon against the wall. The quiver following soon after and ending up hung from the back of the nearest chair. “It’s time that I pushed the Maw’s power further. Used it not just to wrench Ghouls and Geists from the Lich King’s grasp but to reforge them as Forsaken.”

Rancor snorted.

Nathanos shook his head, propping himself against the table. Taloned hands splayed, palms down, against the worn wood. “Not random, no. I know precisely whom to start with: I’m sorely in need of an Apothecary, as the Blight will be our greatest weapon against both the Living and the Scourge, and a good Rogue is always useful.” He said. “I have one of them. That much I know for certain. As for the other…I’m not sure but with the amount of lessers that I’ve gathered the possibility is high that I do.”

Another huff.

“There are concerns, yes, but without a Dreadlord about to make him believe-falsely-that he can betray the Forsaken with impunity he’s containable. And I intend to see to it that he’s made well aware that, if he knows what’s good for him, his loyalty will remain solely to _me_.” Nathanos growled. “I predict no problems with Belmonte. The Deathstalker Commander was loyal to his Queen until the end. This time, he shall be loyal to me.”

All of the Forsaken would be, if they were wise. And, through him, to Sylvanas. He’d tolerate nothing less.

“The effort will be an involved one, of that much I have no doubt.” Nathanos said. “As such, I’ll be bringing them each inside as I undergo the matter. Gather your pack. Let nothing through that door while I’m…indisposed.”

Another twitch of a pointed ear before Rancor pattered out the door, no doubt to collect the other hounds from the barn. Satisfied that his commands would be followed, Nathanos extended his awareness out across the thin web of anima tendrils which connected him to the ghouls which he’d collected. Calling the first that he wanted to him before continuing to parse through the sprawl of others. Locating, at last, and through an admitted stroke of luck, precisely who he was looking for and beckoning to them as well.

Nathanos waited there, in the dim and quiet, until the two ghouls he’d summoned shambled up the bowing steps. Spilling into the ruined kitchen, then ceasing to move. Teetering slightly like branches in a stiff breeze. Glazed and glassy eyes focused on him blankly.

Neither of them was in particularly good shape; between the months which had rolled by since their deaths and necrotic magic which animated the both men were in advanced states of decay; their flesh atrophied and blue and skin frayed over bone at the elbows and the knees. Their clothing torn to bloodied ribbons but still recognizable enough; the matte leather garb of a Rogue and the ruined cloth robes of an Alchemist.

Briefly, Nathanos considered his options: Belmonte, of the two of them, was the calmer element, to say the least, but ultimately Putress’ delusions of grandeur, were he to be chosen first, would play into his desires to keep him on a leash.

Calling on the Maw and reaching out for the bonds of Anima which hung in ribboned strands Nathanos began the process of repairing the damage which Arthas and the Lich King had wrought. Confronted with a shattered mindscape which he brought the frothing shadows to bare in fixing. The glowing strands which the entity had stripped from the Thuzadin unraveling as they were expended. Discomfort beginning to make itself known as an increasing pressure behind his temples. Mounting until he felt he might go blind shoring up the last of the damage and pulling back. Agony and weakness erupting through the whole of his being as his knees buckled and he went down with the heavy thud of stones. Gasping for air he didn’t need as his chest constricted.

_Did you think my power came without a cost, Hound?_ The Jailor! Nathanos wanted to snarl. To confront the being behind the power he’d been shackled with that it hadn’t disclosed the full truth of its price in spite of claiming to have granted him full knowledge of its nature. But all he could do was sit there and quake as his body recovered from the shock. _I did not deceive you. I gave you full knowledge of the questions that you asked. You had no inquiry on price._

Amusement bled into him from the being as he internally cursed at it.

_Now that you seem to be appropriately curious, allow me to amend matters. It’s very simple. Feed the Maw and grow in power. Or it will feed on you._

As quickly as it had come the Jailor retreated, and Nathanos pushed himself up off the wooden floor. Shakes still wracking his body. Vision slightly out of focus. Standing there across from him, staring at his rotted hands with such a degree of fascination that it was as if he’d never seen such a thing before, was Putress.

Attention attracted by his motion, the other man’s head snapped up. Jaundiced eyes widening to saucers as he lunged forward wildly. Reaching out with grasping fingers and seizing fistfuls of his cloak. Nathanos’ first instinct was to recoil in alarm but the wall just behind him prevented retreat and the Dark Ranger wound up with the mad man clinging to his chest.

“_You!”_ He howled, continuing to scrabble at him madly. A disturbing adoration in his eyes. “You! You saved-! I never thought-! But I’m _free_! Myself again! I-! **_You_**! A God!”

Nathanos had the creeping suspicious that, one day, he’d come to regret allowing the other Forsaken to believe that; if this was how the first Human reacted when the Light ‘created’ them-as the church liked to claim-the Dark Lord could sympathize with its need to never directly show itself to the frothing masses. Putress was still clinging to him, as if attempting to climb into his breastplate with him.

“Tell me, Sire, what I have to do! Devotion! Anything to repay!”

“Release me!” He growled. “The effort of this has left me weak.”

He’d need time to recuperate his energy, and then would have to hunt the Living in order to feed the Maw enough to be able to Belmonte. Only then to rinse and repeat with each of the ghouls and geists that he’d gathered until each and every one of them were restored-reborn-as Forsaken. It would take months and years until he’d finished the task, and it would cost him greatly, but so be it. This, most certainly, wasn’t the method Sylvanas had used but it was the only one he had, and the one which would bind them the tightest to him. Ensure their loyalty and devotion, so that none of them, this time, would attempt to defect to the Alliance when the Menethil woman made her appearance. That, unfortunately, also meant that he had no one to assist him in calming Putress down. And so, the manic frenzy would no doubt continue, unabated, at least for a number of hours more.

Announcing his weakness, apparently, had been the wrong choice because the next thing Nathanos knew he’d been bowled into the chair which Putress had pushed into him from behind.

“Have a seat, Sire. And rest. Is there anything else that I can do for you?” It was odd, a detached part of him couldn’t help but note, seeing the other man without the beaked mask he’d been known so well for on the other Azeroth. Noticing the other ghoul, his yellow eyes narrowed and he bit out a territorial “is that _thing_ here for a purpose?”

“He was to be the second, but I haven’t the strength for it now. Tomorrow, or the next day, after I rest and hunt.” Internally, Nathanos winced at how breathy his tone sounded even to his own ears. “I need your help. And his. To save our people. To find my Queen. To take our lands back, both from Arthas and from the Living.” He said, gesturing weakly towards another chair. “Sit. There’s much I must explain.”

Hastily, Putress did as he was told. Looking like an attentive child prepared to receive a lecture from a teacher.

“I am the Dark Lord, the Hound of Torghast, Nathanos Blightcaller. In life, I was the Ranger Lord of Quel’thalas. In death, I serve a force beyond Arthas and his Lich King. My intention is to gather the fallen children of Lordaeron together. To protect them, all of them, from a world which refuses to acknowledge our right to exist. All because of a curse we never asked to bear. You, Grand Apothecary Putress, are the first of the Forsaken. The first of many.”

“Grand Apothecary?” he repeated, a look of wonder and the title he’d been crowned with spreading across his desiccated face.

“I require your…unique talent set as an alchemist in life to found the Royal Apothecary Society and begin work on understanding and perfecting the Blight used by the Scourge.” Nathanos said. “It will be the foremost weapon in our arsenal.”

“I’ll start my work immediately, Sire. Though I’ll need a sample in order to begin; after disassembling it, I’ll be able to recreate and ultimately perfect the strain for your purposes.” He said. “Though, if you truly plan to restore so many, I’m not certain the land here will provide sufficient space for a proper plague cauldron.”

“I have plans to move soon, once we’ve the numbers to justify it.” Nathanos said. “Corin’s Crossing first. Then Stratholme. You’ll have your cauldron and your sample. In the meantime, a written recipe from the Thuzadin will have to suffice; I’ll retrieve one when I hunt.”

“Of course, Sire. I’ll do all that I can with anything you’re able to provide me.” He said. “Is there anything further I can do for you tonight?”

Nathanos shook his head. “My hounds are outside; the blue one’s name is Rancor. He’ll accompany you in familiarizing yourself with the property.” He said. “If there are Scourge or Living which attempt to attack you, you’ll be protected. Regardless of that, I want you to return here immediately if such a thing does occur.”

“I’ll leave you to rest, then.” Putress’ footsteps retreated towards the door and out of the house but Nathanos didn’t see him go. His chin having already fallen to his chest. His eyelids feeling leaden. He was dead. He’d been dead for years. Couldn’t remember the last time that he’d chosen to sleep, let alone _had to_, yet now his efforts to scrabble at wakefulness were for not.

Scraping the very last of his energy together Nathanos forced his head to lift and his eyes to focus on the other ghoul. Growling a stilted “leave me” before all grip on consciousness was lost. Whether or not he was obeyed, he didn’t know.


	15. Chapter 15

Much like a muscle, powers of magical origin required exercise in order for their ease of use to increase. This much the Dark Ranger had discovered, much to his relief, over the two months which had passed since the day he’d restored Putris. After striking another Thuzadin encampment to regain the necessary strength to do so Nathanos had turned his attention to restoring Belmonte as well; though this effort ultimately left him equally indisposed, subsequent restorations took less and less out of him until he was able to retain not only his consciousness but some ability to fight were he to be attacked in the immediate aftermath.

After he’d restored the Rogue to himself, and explained to him who he was and what the Forsaken were, Belmonte had joined Putris-though, mercifully, with considerably less zealotry than the Grand Apothecary-in assisting Nathanos’ efforts. Now, after an exhaustive campaign, the Dark Lord had restored almost all of the lesser undead he’d gathered to proper Forsaken and four more Scourge outposts had been eradicated.

At this point, the Marris Stead was bursting at the seams and Nathanos knew that his time lingering on the land where he’d been born had come to a close.

The door of what had once been his bedroom creaked on unoiled hinges. Nathanos, who’d been standing at the window looking out towards the barn, watching his people mill about as they pleased, turned his head. Red eyes meeting with the wan yellow gaze of the Rogue. He stepped back from the window and fully turned to face him.

“Deathstalker Commander.”

“I received your summons, Lord Blightcaller.” Belmonte rasped. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“We’ve been successful in our efforts, Belmonte. So much so that we need more space, now, than my family home can provide. Putress, too, requires more space than is available to begin working with the Plague in earnest; up until now, he’s merely been studying Cult of the Damned literature on the matter. It’s time a plague cauldron was assembled for him and his Apothecaries.”

“More space would certainly be of assistance.” Belmonte said. “Is there somewhere that you have in mind?”

“There is.” Nathanos paced back to the window again. Squinting out towards the horizon. “To the east there is a Scourge held town: Corin’s Crossing. It ought to provide us with more than enough space for our needs and bring us one step closer to our next target.”

“Stratholme.”

Nathanos hummed in response.

“My Deathstalkers and I will scout the area and report back with any weak points that we find.” Belmonte said. “The matter shouldn’t take more than a day or so.”

“See to it.” He said. “In the meantime, I’ll interrogate Putress on what he believes he needs to further our efforts in producing the Blight and determine what steps need to be taken to arrange them.” Turning once more from the window, Nathanos made his way across the dusted floor towards the door which still hung open. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Exiting the room and turning abruptly down the hallway outside. Descending the staircase at the end to the first floor, greeting the withered woman whom croaked out a hello with a stiff nod, and then proceeding out the front door and around the corner of the house. Yanking open the doors of the cellar and making his way down the stone steps which he found there.

Putress and the small handful of Apothecaries he’d chosen from the ranks of the restored Forsaken had taken over the entirety of the dank space below the Stead. A couple of lopsided tables bearing an array of twisted equipment Nathanos, if asked, couldn’t have hoped to name which had been lifted from the Thuzadin encampments dominated the space. Bubbling with numerous liquids in different colors, filling the air with a faint sheen of steam.

“Putress.” Nathanos called over the clamor.

“My Lord!” The Grand Apothecary-in the absence of the necessary materials to create the beaked mask Nathanos recalled him favoring, the mad man had shoved a horse skull onto his head-spun around so quickly that he almost knocked the entire display of chemicals onto the floor. “Is there something you require? Something I can do for you? Anything at all! Just say the word!”

Nathanos raised a hand to silence the other man. “Calm down, Putress.” He said. “I simply have a handful of questions I’d like you to answer for me.”

“Anything!”

The other Apothecaries were used to the man’s behavior by now and continued their business without looking up.

“Belmonte and his Deathstalkers have been dispatched to Corin’s Crosing in search of the settlement’s weak points which we’ll be able to exploit in ejecting the Scourge and taking it for ourselves.” Nathanos said. “We’ve a few days before they return with their report in order to see to other things. I intend to use that time to procure for you the necessary trappings to produce the Blight. What all do you need, and have you any idea where we might be able to get it?”

“Of course, Sire!” Putress said. “It isn’t much, really. A large cauldron capable of holding a considerable volume of fluid and sturdy chain to hold it down. Singular batches ought to be more than enough for our current purposes.”

“A large cauldron and sturdy chain.” Nathanos repeated. “And, I recall, a sample of the Scourge’s mixture.”

“Precisely, my Lord.”

“Where might I get these things?”

“The Scourge, to my knowledge, have not yet stretched far into Silverpine Forest but the inhabitants of the area were evacuated regardless.” The Grand Apothecary said. “The forge of Pyrestone Village, at the foot of Shadowfang Keep, ought to have such chains. And a cauldron, too, should be somewhere in the area.”

Nathanos grunted. “To transport something that unwieldly over such a distance we’ll need either a Mage or a mount.”

A mount with wings.

“The bats in the area have begun to grown to considerable size.” One of the Apothecaries said. “They ought to be more than large enough for such a purpose.”

That was true enough. And where it would no doubt be a wise choice to make an effort at taming some of them soon for use by his Forsaken, a bat was hardly a fitting mount for a King.

But he knew of something else that was.

“Bats will come in time. I’ve another idea.” He said. “Putress, gather whatever you feel you need to for a brief trip. We’ll make our way into the mountains just to the north.”

“Of course, Sire. I’ll be out in a moment!”

Turning his back on the Apothecary Nathanos exited the cellar, retrieving his mount from the stables; now full with the reanimated remains of the beasts which had fallen in the midst of the failed evacuation. He’d settled himself comfortably in the saddle by the time Putress joined him, selecting another horse at random and mounting up as well.

They rode in silence down the curving path and out onto the cobbled road. Turning off not long after and heading away into the dwindling trees towards the spine of rocky peaks marking the border between Lordaeron and Quel’thalas.

Reaching the place at the top of the path where he’d been left upon his initial arrival on that version of Azeroth Nathanos dismounted. Red eyes turning expectantly onto Putress.

“Out of the saddle.” He grunted. “We go on foot from here.”

The Grand Apothecary did as he was told, his footsteps falling in behind the Dark Ranger as he left the path and began to climb. Clambering over large boulders and scrabbling across loose stone and narrow ledges. Then, finally, they arrived on an overlook above the valley where the Drake had fallen. Its black form crumpled in the shallow trickle of water which crept along the bottom.

Putress joined him at the edge and looked down. Spying the Dragon at last and going stiff.

Nathanos bit down on the urge to scoff. “Stay here.” Without another word he stepped over the edge. Briefly overcome by the sensation of falling before the Maw curled around his body. Landing safely on solid ground a moment later. His heavy boots sloshing through the shallow water as he approached the dead Dragon.

The arrow that he’d fired had gone straight through its throat and still remained lodged in its scaly hide. Nathanos grabbed hold of the shaft and tore it free. Casting it aside into the shallow water. The Dragon hadn’t been treated well by death; the fall had left a number of its bones broken and scavengers and decay had gotten to the withered flesh, exposing large swaths of the skeletal structure beneath.

Centering himself the best he could, drawing once again on the Dark Core within him, Nathanos forced the black and violet spindles of Necromantic magic into the broken form. The dark power burrowing ravenously into the flesh and bone and sinew. Forcing the Drake back from death. Trapping it within its fallen form.

Nathanos stepped back as it thrashed; tail going one way and long neck the other. Eyes sliding open to reveal not the icy blue light of the Scourge but the dark shadows of the Maw. There was no trace of recognition in it. The beast’s intelligence didn’t seem to surpass a ghoul’s and if it did then it wasn’t by much. But it would obey. And it would serve both as his wings and a devastating tool against his enemies.

That would be more than suitable enough.

“Rise.” Shifting about until it could get its taloned paws beneath it, the Dragon pushed itself up onto its feet. Nathanos reaching up to seize a grasp on its scapula and hoist himself onto its back. Settling himself between the protrusions of its spine. “Fly.”

With the snap of sail fabric unfolding the Dragon’s wings unfurled. The webbing diaphanous and obsidian black, shredded into bloody strips. Its wings beat once, twice, and the Drake parted from the earth in a spray of cold water. Its tail a boney sweep beneath.

Putress almost toppled over in alarm when the beast landed heavily, the beating of its wings sending a halo of dust and gravel flying.

Incredible!” He declared, throwing up his arms. “Simply stupendous! A _Dragon_ Sire!”

“This is no more than what Arthas is capable of.” Nathanos said. “Get on. The horses will know to return on their own.”

For a drawn-out moment Putress stood motionless, as if stunned, then hastened to follow his orders. Scrabbling for grip for a moment before catching hold and pulling himself, artlessly, into the Drake’s back.

“Don’t fall off.” That was all the warning he gave before commanding the beast beneath them into motion. The Dragon launching itself back into the air with a distorted roar. Putress letting out a yelp of surprise and seizing him around the middle to keep from tumbling, head over heels, over the beast’s bony tail. The exposed tips of his fingers digging into the eyelets of his chest plate like the claws of a frightened cat.

“My Lord, I’m sorry!”

Nathanos sighed, resisting the urge to shake his head. “It’s fine, Putress.”

Every Lord of the Damned, he supposed, needed their own version of Kel’thuzad. Nathanos simply hadn’t expected it to be so incredibly grating.

He hadn’t had much contact with Putress the first time around, and back then this insane devotion had no doubt been directed in the direction of the damnable Dreadlord Varimathras.

Wheeling high above the mountains, Nathanos directed the Drake out across the Plaguelands. The narrow stream of the Throndroril passing by below them. The pass narrowing and opening again, the rolling greyish grass of Tirisfal Glades stretching beneath them; the ruined remnants of Lordaeron visible on the near horizon.

When last Nathanos had seen it whole, in all its broken glory, had been years in the past. Before the War of Thorns, when the Burning of Teldrassil had brought the Alliance to their door with vengeance in their hearts. Before Sylvanas had given him the order which had set into motion the Blighting of the only safe haven for their people in a world which refused to acknowledge they had the same right to exist as any other race.

Not this time, Nathanos was determined. Let the lions come. They’d be nothing but more fodder for the Maw.

There were no Worgen, yet, lurking in the towering trees of Silverpine to the south but there would be soon. Greymane’s mad gambit with Arugal to defend his walled off kingdom against the advance of the undead soon to take place. For now, with the exception of Lor’themar’s cadre of Elves, which Kael’thas had dispatched to Garithos, who’d then sent them out to the forest to ‘look busy’, and the Night Elf she-demon Tyrande, there was nothing in the area for him to concern himself with which might meddle in his plans.

They’d only spent a few hours in the area as it was; Nathanos doubted much could go wrong in so short a frame of time.

Pyrestone Village would soon be overrun with Arugal’s worgen, but for now it stood empty and desolate in the evacuation’s wake. Cold in the shadow of Shadowfang Keep, perched high atop the looming cliff. The Drake descended, landing in the middle of the tow square with a heavy thud. The cobblestones cracking beneath its weight. Tail sending the dried fountain toppling with a crash. Rubble crunched beneath his boots as Nathanos dismounted. Putress almost losing his footing as he followed.

“We’ll only be here for a handful of hours.” Nathanos grunted. “Comb this village for whatever you need to make the Blight, as well as anything else which might be of use to our efforts. Use the Dragon to carry it.”

“If I might ask such a thing, Lord Blightcaller, where are you going to be in the meanwhile?”

“Poking about in that Keep up there.” He said. “I don’t expect anything to happen, but should trouble begin you’re to retrieve me immediately. If we must return for the cauldron and chains at a later time, so be it.”

“Of course.”

Satisfied that Putress would do as he’d asked, Nathanos swiveled his head upwards in the direction of the towering clifftop castle. Following the curve of the stone before locating the path which led up it. Leaving Putress behind in the empty village to amuse himself and setting off down it. The land, arching beneath his feet into a stiff incline of the sort which might once have made his muscles burn. Now, as he walked, he felt no such strain and crested the top a handful of minutes later.

Red eyes perused the broken face of the building, swiftly locating the entrance and cautiously approaching it. Peering into the darkness at the cluttered entry beyond before slipping inside and around the corner.


	16. Chapter 16

Everything had been a terrible rush since the fall of the Bandinoriel, first with the arrival of the Scourge and Sylvanas’ death and resurrection as a Banshee, then with the King’s murder and the tainting of the Sunwell which had forced the Prince to destroy it, then with Kael’thas’ decision to lend aid to the tattered remnants of the Alliance who clung tenaciously to the outskirts of Lordaeron. Under the command of Othmar Garithos, things hadn’t gotten any better. Kael’thas, along with the Magisters in their number, had been shipped off to some nowhere outpost along the sea and hadn’t been in contact since. As for his Rangers-his because what little remained of the Farstriders had been placed at his command, after the Prince had named him successor to Sylvanas’ position-they’d been swiftly dispatched to oversee the evacuation of the handful of settlements in Silverpine. After that evacuation had completed without incident of any sort the expected order to return hadn’t come down and he and his men had been left hanging in a sort of bureaucratic purgatory with no sign of relief. Under normal circumstances he’d simply have assumed that their return was expected, but with Garithos he didn’t want any appearance of dissent that the Human could seize upon as evidence of insubordination. But of late their rations of food had begun running low and, much to their collective chagrin, their efforts to provide for themselves off what the forest around them had to offer had amounted, thus far, to little success. And now, it seemed, they had a new problem.

“A dragon?” Lor’themar heaved a heavy sigh. Dragging a hand across his drawn face. Fingers catching on the leather strap of the eyepatch he wore, having lost his left eye not long after Sylvanas had fallen. “Belore’s grace. You’re certain it was undead?”

“That’s what Paleshadow says she saw.” Halduron had come to fill, for him, the position which Nathanos had for Sylvanas. At least in the professional context. The short haired Elf, clad in his usual green mail, regarded him with equal exhaustion on his features. “The beast was flying low enough that the damage to its body was visible. Nothing could be alive with chunks taken out of it like that.”

This was the very last thing they needed. “I see.”

“She says that it was headed eastward, towards the Greymane Wall.” Halduron said. “And that it may have had a rider.”

“A Deathknight, no doubt. Perhaps even Arthas himself.” Wouldn’t that be a cruel twist of fate? Surviving, just barely, the invasion of their homeland by the Scourge only to yet again come face to face with the Lich King’s champion. All so that he could finish what he’d started in Quel’thalas. “Moving on Gilneas, perhaps?”

“If that’s the case, the ground troops will be moving through here soon.” Halduron said. “And I doubt the Gilneans would take well to being contacted, on this or any other matter. They made their stance pretty damn clear when they seceded from the Alliance. Should we do something?”

Do something? What could they do that Sylvanas hadn’t? How could they stand against the champion of the Frozen Throne when their Ranger General, the strongest of them, couldn’t? “There’s nothing to be done until we know exactly what it is we’re dealing with.” He said. “There’s another town near the wall, is there not? Pyrewood, I believe it was called. With its close proximity to the wall, it’s as likely a destination for the beast and its rider as any.”

“A scouting mission?”

Lor’themar nodded. “Tell Paleshadow to get her Hawkstrider and then meet me at the outskirts of the camp. The three of us should be enough to cover the whole of that little town, and the Keep above it, without being large enough to draw attention.”

“Of course.” Halduron turned and hurried away to alert to other Ranger to his orders. Reaching out to grab his blue Hawkstrider by its reigns, Lor’themar walked the mount over to the outskirts of their encampment before pulling himself up into the saddle.

It wasn’t much longer before the other two Elves joined him, each astride their own green and pink plumed birds. His expectation that Halduron had informed her of his intentions was confirmed when his second in command nodded in response to his unvoiced question.

Though their mounts had been fairing little better than they were with regards to the shortage of food, the animals were none the less valiant in their efforts to transport them and they arrived on the outskirts of the abandoned village at just passed the cusp of evening. The darkening sky cast the empty buildings and the mountain of scaly hide coiled loosely around the remnants of what might have been a fountain in shades of blue and violet. The undead which had just walked out of the forge dropped the heavy length of chain it had been carrying upon catching sight of them. All three Elves leveled it in the sights of their arrows and, despite looking little different than the standard ghoul-though, oddly enough, it seemed to be wearing a horse skull on its head-it displayed a surprising degree of sentience in the action of raising both boney hands in a placating motion.

“It’s…intelligent.” Paleshadow’s glowing eyes were wide.

It had been odd enough that the monster hadn’t simply lunged at them on sight. The disgruntled look of offense which slid across what little of its face was visible, and the way it planted its boney fingers on its hips, sealed the deal as incredibly odd. And the raspy demand of “It? _It?_ How very _dare _you!” well, from the way both Paleshadow and Halduron turned white Lor’themar could tell he wasn’t the only one sent reeling.

“Did that ghoul,” Halduron almost dropped his bow, “just talk?”

“_Ghoul_?” the undead yowled, offense now unmistakable. Confirming that, yes, it had indeed just talked and was continuing to do so. “I, Elf, am no mere ghoul! And I am not an _it_! My name and title is Grand Apothecary Putress of the Royal Apothecary Society. First of the Forsaken. _Willing_ servant of the Hound of Torghast, unlike the thoughtless masses forced to serve Arthas! And you are getting in my way; begone!”

“You mean to say that you’re not a part of the Scourge?” Lor’themar demanded. The undead’s full focus shifting to him. Yellow eyes narrowing. “That you don’t answer to Arthas?”

“The Forsaken and the Scourge are not the same, no. As I told you. And no, we answer to the Hound. The Dark Lord.” He snapped. “Now, once again, away with you Elves! I’ve a job to be doing and I don’t doubt the you have better things to be doing yourselves than interrogating me!”

“You expect us to simply let you walk away, monster?” Paleshadow snapped. “And to take those chains and that cauldron with you, I don’t doubt. I’m certain you’re intending to use that for the Plague, aren’t you?”

“To perfect it for use against the Scourge and turn it on them, yes.” The undead sounded incredibly exasperated now. “As the Dark Lord ordered. Now, if you could leave me be so that I can finish before he returns, I’d be appreciative. We’re on a tight schedule!”

“Who is the ‘Dark Lord’?” Halduron demanded, clearly losing his patience.

“The Dark Lord is the Dark Lord. The Blightcaller. The Hound.” He said. “If you’re really so curious then you ought to go and meet him. He’s up in the Keep at the moment.”

“At the Keep.” Lor’themar repeated, turning his head to look up at the Keep above them. It hung over the lip of the crumbling cliff face like a glaring raven, black against the setting sun. His remaining good eye narrowed. “Paleshadow, Halduron, watch this…Forsaken. I’m going up to that Keep to take a look around.”

“You can’t go alone!” Halduron, though he never lowered his bow, turned his head to face Lor’themar with eyes wide in alarm. “Are you mad?”

“We can’t leave Paleshadow with these undead either, now can we?” Lor’themar said. “I’ll be fine, Halduron.”

“We don’t know what this ‘Blightcaller’ is or what it’s capable of. So, forgive me, Ranger General, in calling bull on that much.” Paleshadow all but growled the words like a cornered feline. “We’ll all go up to ‘speak’ with it. And this one,” she jabbed her drawn arrow in Putress’ direction with a pointed glare, “will introduce us.”

Have an undead escort them up to the dark form of the ominous Keep to meet with another of its kind which it referred to as its ‘Lord’? It didn’t strike Lor’themar as a particularly wise idea, but he couldn’t argue that it was the best option that they had. “Good idea, Paleshadow.” Fixing the undead in a harsh gaze, he ordered “lead the way.”

“I-.”

“That wasn’t a request!” Halduron snapped.

“Very well, Elves.” The undead huffed. “Come with me.”

Boney knees protruding at odd angles from beneath his tattered robe, the Forsaken began making his way towards the road leading up to the cliff top. The three High Elven Rangers following at a safe distance, still with weapons raised. Their journey to the top was uneventful and before too long they found themselves standing at the great Keep’s foot. Across a narrow draw bridge, the door hung ajar and unsealed. The dozens of windows pockmarked its face staring out at them like vacant eyes.

“The undead are all connected, are they not?”

Putress turned to face him with yet more offense on his features. “The Dark Lord isn’t like the Lich King! Doesn’t keep close tabs on us or override our wills and desires with-!”

“You’re able to _find him_, yes?”

“While he doesn’t deign to shut me out.” Putress said. “I’ll take you to him now.” Without further pause the undead set off across the sun-bleached planks of the lowered drawbridge and entered the Keep. The Elves hurrying to follow so as not to lose sight of him.

The entry of the Keep was dour looking; stone walls and stone floors strewn with greyish, rotting hay. A massive barred gate immediately before them blocked their path forward into the courtyard. Putress turned through a narrow doorway and headed up a set of stairs. Crumbling pillars. More hay strewn floorboards. They were led through another door and into the courtyard they’d seen. Passed a dry fountain and into the courtyard they’d seen. Passed a dry fountain and an empty stable. Through a narrow room where firewood was stored and into the gloomy confines of a grand dining room.

“Sire!” The Forsaken’s voice sounded thunderous in the quiet of the cavernous space. Lor’themar started. Gaze ricocheting around what he’d first mistaken for an empty room in search of any signs of habitation. Focusing, finally, on the flicker of motion at the front of the room as a shadowed figure rose to its full height beside a ragged table. Red eyes blazing like lanterns in the dark.

“When I ordered you to come to me if anything happened, Putress,” the Blightcaller said, “this wasn’t what I meant.”

Lor’themar froze. Halduron cursed. Paleshadow recoiled with a hiss, her ears pinning back against her auburn hair. Even beneath the metallic rasp of undeath, the voice would have been immediately recognizable to any Farstrider. Either not noticing their upset or, more likely, simply not caring Nathanos continued to speak.

“Though, granted, I’d expected it to be the Scourge or else some other form of wildlife that you encountered not my…former colleagues.” He said. “I doubt you’d have managed to make it out of range of their bows had you attempted to run, and given the amount of effort I expended in salvaging you from that Death Knight imbecile perhaps it’s best you didn’t try.”

“Nathanos.” Lor’themar had to physically force himself not to cringe when the other man’s fiery eyes landed on him. “You’re the ‘Dark Lord’?”

“The Lich King isn’t the only one capable of making deals, and where Ner’zhul wanted a Knight _my_ Master wanted a Hunter.” He said. “My fall at the family stead presented the Jailor with precisely what he was looking for, and considering my other option was a mindless existence as a ghoul it was an offer I simply couldn’t refuse.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Same as you: looking for supplies. Though I don’t doubt it’s of a markedly different sort.” Teeth flashed, the white crescent of a snide smile in the dark. “Don’t look so surprised, Theron. I’ve as many eyes in these lands, now, as Arthas does if not more. I’d imagine that being unable to provide for yourself in a bloody forest of all things, as a Ranger, must be quite the…poke in the eye?”

Lor’themar frowned, opening his mouth to respond to the undead’s-bizzarely similar to the living equivalent’s-attempt at humor but the twang of a bowstring cut him off. An arrow slamming into the mail chest piece that he wore, lodging in the joint at the shoulder.

Nathanos looked down at the protruding shaft before reaching up to yank it free. Blazing eyes falling on Paleshadow. “If you know what’s good for you, girl,” he snarled, all traces of attempted geniality up in smoke, “you _won’t_ do that again.”

Her attempt to reload was thwarted by Halduron, who grabbed her from behind and pinned her arms to her sides. “Are you insane? Don’t provoke him!”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed, but the clear hostility in his posture lessened. His voice evening in tone once more. “Seems that I was wrong about you, Brightwing. You do possess a modicum of intellect.” Returning his attention to the other undead he said “go back to the village and finish up. Once you’re done, take the Dragon and return to the stead. I’ll follow once I’ve finished here.”

Though Putress didn’t appear particularly pleased with the concept of leaving Nathanos alone with them he didn’t argue and hastened to exit the room.

“You’re undead.”

The Blightcaller didn’t look particularly impressed with his sudden observation. “I’d thought we’d already established that.”

Lor’themar’s ears pinned back. “Don’t be difficult, Marris.”

“Then don’t be stupid, Theron.” Nathanos retorted sharply. “And don’t call me that! Nathanos Marris is dead.”

“Blightcaller, then.” Lor’themar said, watching the former Human shift his weight, dark cloak swaying at his ankles. “You’re separate from the Scourge?”

“There you go again, asking stupid questions. Stupid questions, no less, I already know you have the answer to.” Nathanos snapped. “The Scourge serve a talking block of ice created by the Burning Legion which thinks itself more capable than it is. My people are the Forsaken; the betrayed masses of Lordaeron whom Arthas would have condemned to an eternity as shambling monstrosities. We serve the Jailor. And we will never be enslaved again!”

“What in Belore’s name is the Jailor?” Lor’themar demanded.

Nathanos, however, didn’t seem to be in any rush to answer him. “You bore me with your questions, Elf.” He began to move, then. Stepping forwards out of the deep shadows and into the narrow chink of light which filtered in from outside. The wan glow spilling over thorny, ink black armor with a strange blue-gold sheen and bloodless skin like slate. “I’ve only a narrow window of time to work with before Arthas is once again able to interfere and there’s still much that needs doing.”

“Maybe you’ll find this question more stimulating then, ‘Dark Lord’,” Lor’themar said harshly, “are you a threat?”

Nathanos stopped, his head canted just slightly to one side. For a long moment he was silent, then, with a rumbling hum, he turned to face them again. “That,” he said, “is a rather complex question. I’m not certain I can answer it to your satisfaction in simple terms.”

“Try!” Lor’themar snapped. “Convince me why I should let you walk out of that door.”

“Because I know where they left the rations and can save you the time looking for it.”

“Try again!”

Once more, those sanguine eyes narrowed. “The answer to that question isn’t ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” He said. “I suppose the simplest way to explain matters would be this, and it’s something that you’d best remember. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that my people have a future, even if that means ensuring that some among the living do not.”

“I see.”

“I think you needn’t worry much, Theron.” Nathanos resumed walking towards the door. “Quel’thalas is Lordaeron’s eldest ally. Should your people ever find themselves in need of allies to protect you from your idiot Prince’s mistakes, you know where to find us.”

With a flick of his tattered black cloak, the Blightcaller was gone.

“You’re just going to let him _leave_!” Paleshadow wrenched herself free of Halduron’s grip and stepped away, appearing to take a moment to consider kicking him in the shin for good measure.

“Picking a fight with him would be unwise.” Lor’themar said. “Even if we won, it wouldn’t be without a cost we couldn’t afford to pay in the state that we’re in. So, yes. I am just going to let him walk away.”

“Come on,” Halduron said, returning the arrow he’d had drawn to his quiver and slinging his bow across his back, “let’s go find those rations.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys want to keep up with schedules for upcoming updates, hiatus' etc follow me at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/worldofshipcraft

Prior to now, Sylvanas wouldn’t have believed that a skeleton could look so tired. After two months of continued attacks by Nathanos-gloriously vicious and leaving nothing alive, this time, which led her to suspect that the ‘oversight’ with the original survivor wasn’t such an oversight after all-and Arthas’ return drawing ever nearer Kel’thuzad looked almost drawn with worry. As if he were a young child aware of their parent’s nearing return after shattering a priceless vase. Keenly aware that her own window of opportunity was rapidly closing, Sylvanas had left her Banshees on the opposite end of the ruins and approached the Arch Lich in an effort to leverage his worry to her advantage.

“How many encampments has that beast dismantled now,” she asked, schooling her features into an expression of anger.

“Counting the first?” the Lich rattled. “Six. No other survivors. And research on the Blight being conducted in the encampments has gone missing; I can only assume that the rebel is scavenging for his own ends, much like he’s done with our ghouls.”

“Arthas won’t be pleased if he returns to find him still wreaking havoc.” Sylvanas said.  
“He did put you in charge of dealing with him.”

“Yes, well, he’s cunning to say the very least. And whatever he’s made a deal with seems to have afforded him more than enough ability to evade our best efforts at containment, let alone elimination.” Nathanos always had been a resourceful man; part of what she loved so much about him. And these were the lands where he’d been born. Lands he knew as well as she’d known Quel’thalas’ verdant forests. Small wonder the Arch Lich wasn’t having much luck. “If you’ve any idea regarding how we might deal with the matter, Lady Windrunner, I’m open to hearing them. Especially considering that we’ve the Living nipping at our heels. Never mind the Burning Legion.”

“The Living?” Sylvanas sneered. “What’s wrong, Necromancer? Garithos and his walnut sized brain giving you trouble?”

“On his own, Othmar Garithos and his rag tag coalition would be of small concern and easily dealt with. Especially considering that your former Prince’s deals with the Naga are soon to get back to the man.”

“’But that’s ‘under normal circumstances’.” she drawled. “What of now?”

“The split in our attention which they cause is being used to the rebel element’s advantage.” Kel’thuzad said. “We just need rid of him.”

“I’d be of better aid with a solid form.” Sylvanas said. “I know Arthas kept my body. And I’ve proved my loyalty by now, I would think; have I not?”

Kel’thuzad stared at her for a long moment in a searching manner. As if trying to ascertain whether or not she was making a play at deception. He looked dubious, to say the very least-he was right to-but ultimately his desire to rid himself of the hound snapping at their ankles won out over any caution that might have been there. “Indeed, you have, Dark Lady.” He unfolded his towering skeletal frame from the table behind which it had been folded with a series of clattering clicks. “Come with me.”

Doing all that she could not to betray her eagerness, Sylvanas trailed the Arch Lich as he hovered out of the room and down onto one of the many curving hallways which had already been cut into the earth below the ruined capital. Finally ducking through the doorway of a small out of the way chamber. Unfurnished stone walls wept cold water. Kel’thuzad motioned to the large wooden trunk in the middle of the uneven floor which was the room’s sole occupant. Snapping his fingers to release the glowing runes that kept it sealed.

“There you are.”

A box. That bastard man child had been keeping her corpse shut up in a trunk, locked away in a chamber all the itself, as if it were some perverse trophy. Sylvanas wanted to scream but kept a handle on her temper by the skin of her teeth and moved forward. Lifting the lid to reveal the contents inside.

Still clad in the blue and golden armor she’d been known for in life, death had left her skin a bloodless grey. The bracer still on her wrist. The twisted necromantic magic which Arthas had used to tear her soul free of her dying body had leeched all color from her long silken hair and seared her tears to black streaks on her cheeks. Frostmourne’s bite had left an open wound in her breast, gaping and crimson. But it was well preserved.

Disturbingly so.

Pushing the countless potential implications from her mind and acting swiftly before the Lich could reconsider Sylvanas took possession of her fallen body. Limbs and joints stiff after so long without use. The sensation of a solid form something which would take her some time to reacclimate to.

Catching a firm grip on the sides of the box which she was lying in, Sylvanas sat up. Curling her fingers; each responding, if a bit slower than she’d have liked. She cracked her neck. Flicked her ears. Everything seemed to be in working order.

“I’m sure it’s strange,” the Arch Lich said, “having a solid body again.”

“Perhaps a bit.” She drawled, pushing herself up onto her feet and stepping over the rim of the trunk. Her knees nearly buckling beneath her weight. Sylvanas refused to acknowledge her slight stumble and looked down at herself with a frown. “These colors hardly suit me any longer. I’m in need of new armor.”

“And a blow and arrow as well, I wouldn’t suppose?”

“Blades too.”

“I’ll have something arranged for you, Lady Windrunner.” Kel’thuzad said. “In the meantime, it’s best you see a Necrosurgeon to have that wound sealed. Allowing it to remain open is simply presenting a weakness to your enemies. Blackthorn is in the Apothecarium; you should go to see him.”

“Very well.” Turning her back on the Arch Lich, Sylvanas exited the little room and made her way back through the curving passages as quickly as her still somewhat unsteady legs would allow. Soon arriving in the Apothecarium where the Necromancer Kel’thuzad had mentioned-Blackthorn-was working; word, it seemed, had proceeded her because he greeted Sylvanas with a nod and a quiet “Dark Lady” in spite of the fact he’d never seen what she looked like before.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to a nearby table, “lie down here. I’ll have that wound sealed up in no time.”

The wooden operating table was soaked in blood and reeked-wasn’t it a mixed blessing and curse to be able to smell again-of rotting meat. Sylvanas suspected that it had been used, prior, to turn out more of the Abominations used by the Scourge. Without a word to him in response the Banshee Queen did as she was told, hoisting herself up onto the rough wooden surface and reclining back.

A moment passed before Blackwell’s footsteps crossed the room. Soon, the Necromancer was standing over her with a thread and wicked needle in hand. He didn’t speak as he set to work-the needle piercing through her deadened flesh with a muted sting-and that suited Sylvanas just fine. Her gaze finding the reflective surface of a bell jar full of eyes, the same red glow she’d seen from beneath the shadowed cowl of his hood mirrored back at her.

Nathanos. Her love both in life and in death. He’d been doing well for himself, clearly, in harrying the Scourge. She envied him, in a way, for his ability to move so freely. But it wouldn’t be long now. The most important step in her plans for getting out from under Ner’zhul’s thumb had been taken. Now, all she had to do was wait for Arthas to return and provide her with the perfect opportunity to spring the ambush which she’d laid out with her Banshees.

After that, her main concern would be finding Nathanos; if he was still at the Marris Stead, she knew, he likely wouldn’t remain there for very long.

Tying off the string and cutting the needle free, Blackthorn stepped back and Sylvanas sat up. Glaring at him expectantly. The Human, clad in the black and silver garb typical of Thuzadin, his discomfort admirably well as he bowed and said “you’re free to go, Lady Windrunner.”

Sylvanas glanced down at herself; the once open wound had now been reduced to a ragged, knotty scar. A blemish on her once perfect body. An ugly brand bisecting her frame, bared by the bloodstained blue breast plate that she wore. A rut where once his warm, strong fingers, with their callouses and ragged nails, had found smooth skin.

It would need to be hidden; a source of shame. Damn Arthas, well and truly, for this!

Resisting the urge to curl inwards on herself, to hide the ugliness, the Dark Lady left the Apothecarium once more in search of Kel’thuzad. Discovering the Arch Lich had once more set himself up behind the long table atop which now sat a black bow and quiver full of arrows and set of mail armor in tones of gold and wine. The breastplate in the same style as what she wore.

“As promised,” Kel’thuzad gestured with one spindly hand towards the array of objects before her. “A bow and arrow and a set of mail in tones which-.”

“It’s too short.” Sylvanas cut him off with a snarl, lip curling back over her teeth.

“Lady-.”

“_It’s too short! I won’t wear it! I refuse!_” Her voice thundered off the stone walls. Sand shaking loose from the ceiling overhead.

The Arch Lich appeared rather confused, but none the less acted to placate her. “Very well. Word has been sent out. A full cover piece ought to arrive in-ah, there it is now.” The door behind her wailed as it swung open to allow another necromancer, a woman this time, into the room.

“Now that that modification has been made,” Kel’thuzad said, “are matters to your liking?”

Sylvanas snatched the armor from the table and turned her back on him. Uncinching the latches on the blue set she had on and exchanging them for the new gold and violet one. Slinging the bow and quiver over her shoulders once she’d finished.

“The skull motif suits you.” The Arch Lich said. “If you don’t mind me making such an observation.”

“I need to become comfortable with having a body again.” Sylvanas said, ignoring him and walking out of the room. “I’m going hunting.”

“Enjoy yourself.” Kel’thuzad called after her. “And if you’ve the chance to cull some of the Living or the Legion-aligned undead, do take it.”

The Banshee Queen didn’t bother to respond, stepping onto the elevator which led back up to the surface and maneuvering around the puddle of blood which had dried into a stain across the throne room floor. The air outside was cold and clammy against her skin, but after so long without such feelings she didn’t register the sensation as uncomfortable.

Slipping between a pair of fallen stone blocks and through the opening of the ruined city gates, Sylvanas set out across the slope of a nearby hill, intent on hunting down the nearest thing she could which moved, regardless of its allegiance or identity and filling it with arrows, when a shadow fell across the glaring sun as it hung on the rim of the horizon. Looking up in time to see a familiar coil of black mist cutting its way across the cloudless sky, she couldn’t help but smile.


	18. Chapter 18

Moving on foot, it had taken Belmonte and his small cadre of Deathstalkers half a day to reach the outskirts of Corrin’s Crossing. Now, with the shadows stretching long across the dried earth as the sun disappeared below the line of the horizon, the Deathstalker Commander’s wan yellow eyes critically examined their surroundings. Falling on the remnants of the guard tower which had begun to crumble atop a nearby hill.

“There,” he said, indicating the tower in question to the others. “High ground, with a good vantage point over the whole of the village. It will serve well as a staging ground for the Dark Lord’s coming strike.”

“The cover of darkness will allow even a sizeable force to close the gap between the tower and the village.” Deathstalker Yorick agreed. “Provided we move quickly enough, we’ll be more than able to take them by surprise. And with how far removed they are from Arthas’ seat of power below the ruins of Lordaeron, any aid they do manage to call for won’t arrive in time to be of any assistance.”

The Deathstalker Commander nodded. “This town already belongs to the Forsaken. Its Thuzadin inhabitants simply haven’t realized it as of yet.” He said. “Fan out and don’t be caught. We need to determine who holds leadership here, as well as make note of the weak points we can exploit, and return the information to the Blightcaller post haste.”

“Naturally.” Zraedus wheezed. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

The three Rogues fanned out, Yorick around the eastern border of the village and Zraedus around the west. Belmont, salvaged daggers in hand, slipped directly into the midst of the Scourge held settlement without pause. Moving from shadow to shadow. Skirting buildings and dipping into doorways.

Thuzadin Necromancers in their black and silver hooded garbs made their way casually about their daily business, as if they owned the settlement and belonged there. The rightful inhabitants reduced to mere ghouls, left to shuffle about with blank eyes and no direction. Banshees, opaque images of fallen Elven women with taloned fingers and twisted masks of agony, hovering not far above the ground. Abominations, blotchy skin the color of the belly of a dead fish stretched tight over stuffings of fetid entrails, straining against the frayed sinew stitches which contained them, plodded about. Dragging rusty chains tipped in jagged meat hooks across the uneven road. A navy banner baring the signet of the Scourge had been jammed into one of the cracks in the basin of the empty fountain.

Hearing the murmur of voices filtering out from the confines of what may once have been an inn, Belmont paused and then, after making sure that the coast was clear, slipped inside.

The furniture-tables and chairs where once customers had sat and ate and drank, singing and laughing together after long days of hard work-had been left scattered about in a haphazard array of splinters. A good number of them were broken. The contents of the bar had been strewn across the floor, a mess of glass shards and the sticky remnants of mingled spirits.

Maneuvering cautiously through the destruction, careful not to knock into any of the scattered wooden chair legs or to break any of the glass underfoot, the Deathstalker Commander ascended the stairs to the first landing and stopped. Able to hear the conversation clearly enough, now, that moving any closer would simply have been an unnecessary risk.

“-Headmaster Gandling, need I remind you, placed me in charge of overseeing matters here, Weaver!”

“You don’t need to remind me, no.” The second voice sounded more exasperated than anything else. Belmonte didn’t have trouble envisioning one of the Thuzadin with their hands thrown in the air. “You never shut up about it, so it’s difficult to forget! Though I can’t imagine why, considering being put in charge of this back water is hardly a reward. If you were really such a prodigy, you’d be serving Kel’thuzad directly!”

“You’re just in denial.”

“Rich, coming from you.” The second scoffed. “But we’ve bigger concerns; that rebel monster is still out there. This place is hardly fortified!”

Dismissing the conversation as if little further use, Belmont made his way back down the stairs and out of the inn. What he’d overheard had, at least, yielded some notable information: the Necromancer in charge of the Thuzadin operations in the area was a Scholomance Alumni-though how thorough their education was Belmont wasn’t certain he could say-and that no special measures had been taken to defend their outpost.

Continually, it seemed, the Scourge would underestimate them. At their own peril.

The Hound would eat them alive.

Slipping back out onto the broken cobbled streets, the Deathstalker Commander complete his circuit and made his way back to the designated meeting point. Yorick and Zraedus were already there waiting for him.

“The majority of their forces seem to be concentrated on the eastern side of town.” Yorick rasped once she caught sight of him. “It will be simple to corner them and wipe them out.”

“Though the Plague cauldron which they’re being supplied by seems to be located elsewhere, they’ve a cache of Blight containers stacked up inside of the church on the western side.” Zraedus said. “The Dark Lord will be particularly interested in it, I think.”

“Indeed.” Belmont said. “And I’ve managed to discover the identity of the Necromancer in charge of this operation.”

“The Blightcaller will be pleased, I don’t doubt.”

“I don’t doubt.” Yorick seconded. “But it will be dawn, soon, and he’s sure to be expecting us. It’s best we be returning.”

With one last glance at the Scourge held town to ensure they weren’t being pursued, the three Rogues set off back towards the Marris Stead. Avoiding the main roads, still used both by the Scourge and the scattered remnants of the Alliance resistance, and moving through the underbrush. Arriving back on the property just as dawn began turning the sky pink only to find a buzz of discussion had overtaken the rest of the Forsaken there.

Belmonte stepped up to the first person they saw and asked “what’s going on?”

“The Dark Lord has proven his power again! Not that any of us needed him to.” She said, bouncing on her heels. “He set out with the Grand Apothecary earlier to head into Silverpine; when Putress returned he was riding…well, it’s really better that you see for yourself. It’s out in the pasture.”

“It?” But the woman had already moved away.

“Well,” Zraedus said after another moment’s silence, “I suppose we should head behind the house, then. We’ll be able to see into the far pasture from there.”

Without further a due the trio moved deeper into the property, skirting around the back of the farmhouse and looking out over the pastures below. Their eyes falling, not long after, on the hulking shape which lay coiled in the grass.

Yorick pulled up short. “I-Is that…?”

The Dragon chose that moment to raise its heavy head and huff a cloud of dark mist into the air. The Plaguehounds, which had been gathered about it in a lose circle with resentment on their muzzled faces, jumpped back in alarm.

“Yes.” Zraedus said, his rotted face stretched into a rictus of surprise. “Yes, it is.”

“But _where_ would he even have…?”

“That’s hardly our concern.” Belmonte said as he turned towards the back door. “We shouldn’t keep the Blightcaller waiting.”

Silently, and with some difficulty tearing their eyes away from the beast lying out behind the house, the other two Deathstalkers fell in behind him and all three entered the house. Maneuvering around the meandering Forsaken-the ravaged remains of a young man, whittling wood in the corner; a shredded woman fiddling with a broken music box-and up the stairs to the second floor.

Nathanos had holed himself up, once more, in what had once been his bedroom but he wasn’t alone. Rancor lay at his feet, tolerating the attentions of a pair of children. A boy who might have once been blonde but was now missing most of his face was squatting next to the hound, running rotting fingers over the animal’s scaly hide in what almost amounted to fascination. A young girl in a bloodied white dress, hair a tangle of fallen leaves and briar thorn, peered out at the boy and long-suffering hound from beneath Nathanos’ black cloak. The Dark Lord watching both with a guarded softness in his eyes.

One which vanished as soon as he realized they were there.

“Deathstalker Commander Belmont. Deathstalker Yorick. Deathstalker Zraedus.” He rumbled, then looked down at the children. “Alexander.”

“Yes, Sir!” The boy jumped to his feet without a moment’s hesitation. “Can I take Rancor with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “can you?”

The boy frowned. “_May_ I?”

“Ask Rancor.” The Plaguehound let out an exasperated noise, throwing a look of mild annoyance in its master’s direction, before getting to its feet and exiting the room with the boy at its heels. The girl, however, didn’t budge and in fact retreated further into the folds of Nathanos’ cloak. Pressing herself against his legs. “Grace.” The Blightcaller sighed, reaching down to lift the girl into his arms. The child-no older than five-wrapped her own around his shoulders and hid her face in the side of his neck. “Very well, then.” His burning gaze returned to them. “Given that the three of you have returned, I take it that you have something to report.”

“Corrin’s Crossing is under the management of a Scholomance Alumni whom, from what I overheard, has no intention of bolstering their defenses despite our activity.” Belmont said, though he couldn’t help but think Nathanos looked far from imposing with a child clinging to his neck. “Yorick and Zraedus have further information of note.”

“The majority of their forces are concentrated in the town’s eastern quarter.” Deathstalker Yorick said. “Coming in from the West, it would be simply done to either push them out or corner and destroy them.”

“In the church on the western side of the town the Thuzadin Necrolytes have amassed a stockpile of Blight.” Deathstalker Zraedus said. “Not only would this stockpile be a target of interest for our own uses, but Putress could no doubt use them for his research.”

Nathanos nodded. “You’d be correct; not only would the Blight itself be of use to us, the means through which they engineered the containers would be as well.” He said. “We’ll move in from the West with the majority of our forces and wedge them in from behind with a smaller contingent. It would be prudent as well, I think, to procure at least a few riding bats to grant us the advantage of air support.” Not that a dragon wasn’t ‘air support’ enough. “You’ve gleaned a notion of the lay of the land around the town, Belmonte?”

“Indeed, Lord Blightcaller.” The Deathstalker Commander said. “There’s an old guard tower overlooking the town which would serve us well as a base of operations. The distance between it and Corrin’s Crossing is short enough that the whole of our forces will be able to make it into close quarters before they can react.”

“Good.” Nathanos swept passed them and out of the door. “Prepare our forces; we’ll move against them this coming dawn.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Thudding down the stairs, depositing the girl beside the kitchen table and pressing the ragged rabbit doll which had been abandoned on the floor into her hands to give her something to cling to that wasn’t him, Nathanos whirled out of the building and dismounted the outside stairs. “Mortuus!”

“Up here, Sire.”

Nathanos turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you on the roof?” he demanded. “How did you even…you know what, never mind. Get down here!”

Setting what looked like a damaged shingle down, the former foreman clambered down from the Stead’s roof and dropped into the grass beside him. The beaten builder’s hat on his head dropping down over his eyes. He reached up with boney fingers to push it back and blinked at him expectantly. “You called?”

This was the man whom Sylvanas had ultimately ordered promoted to the rank of Grand Executor? Granted, Nathanos hadn’t seen the man fight yet but all he’d really done since he’d restored him was putter about and repair things with what pittance of supplies he’d been able to find.

“Collect the first ten able Forsaken that you can find and meet me on the road.” Nathanos said. “We’re going to the bat grounds. Bring rope with you.”

“Yes, Sir.” Mortuus turned and hurried away and Nathanos continued down the curving path towards the main road. Mortuus and the ten he’d gathered met him there not long after, coils of rope slung over their shoulders.

Nathanos nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, come along. We have no time to waste.”

With the group of Forsaken trailing him like ducklings, the Dark Ranger led the way along the curving road to the bat grounds along the Throndroril. Once, the things had only been about the size of his hand; your standard brown bat. But the Blight which had wreaked havoc across his homeland had a mutative effect on more than just the local wolves. The branches over head were thick with bats the size of griffons; their leathery wings an array of colors in different shades of grey and white and brown. Then, circling overhead in the light of the rising moon, a glint of red.

Nathanos motioned for a coil of rope with a savage grin. His fingers closed around the rough fibers as the nearest Forsaken complied with handing it over. “These bats will be a great advantage, both in our press on Corrin’s Crossing and in the future. We’ll use them to drop stones, and later the Blight, onto the heads of our enemies.” He said. “But we’ll need to break them first. And that means getting onto their backs.” As they watched, he tied the rope into a workable lasso. “Before anything else, we’ll need bait to lure them down.”

“But, Lord Blightcaller, can’t you-?”

_“I_ can fly, but the lot of you aren’t able to.”

A low murmur passed through their ranks, admitting the obvious. Then, Mortuus spoke up. “But what are we going to use?’

“Blood.” He pulled off his glove and pushed down the gauntlet worn beneath it. Drawing an axe from his belt and slitting the pale skin from wrist to elbow. Blood welled, oxidized closer to black than the red of a living man. Pain radiated outwards. Nathanos held his other hand towards them. “Give me some cloth.”

A tattered length of rough-cut fabric was placed in his hand. Nathanos didn’t pay enough mind to determine what it was and pressed it to the open wound until the dark fluid saturated it. Blood dripping off in viscous strands.

Nathanos tossed it away and it landed on the uneven ground with a splat. The surrounding trees came alive with sound and motion. Leaves dislodged from dying branches as half the colony descended. The Dark Ranger’s red eyes scanned the frenzy of beating wings for the telltale crimson tinge and then leapt into the fray. Slipping the lasso around the bulk of the bat’s body before it could take off with a shriek, dragging him aloft.

Swinging from the-admittedly less than sturdy and already beginning to fray-rope, Nathanos looked down and bellowed “what are the lot of you waiting for? That cloth won’t distract them forever!”

Whether or not they made any move to act Nathanos didn’t know, as at that moment the bat he was tied to did a violent barrel roll and he nearly lost his grip. Cursing, he wrapped the rope around his hand and began to climb. The strain on his arm making the wound burn.

He caught a firm hold on the ruff behind the bat’s neck and swung himself up onto its back, and was immediately almost dislodged. Hissing, the Dark Ranger pulled back hard on the rope around the bat’s middle. Then again. Then a third time when it attempted, once more, to buck him off. Holding tight until it tired. Relaxing once certain the animal had exhausted itself and would be properly docile.

Around him, Mortuus and the others were finishing up with their own bats; a brown one, smaller than the others, was tolerant of the undead on its back; another, its skin and pelt a shock of white, continued to make periodic efforts to throw off its rider that met with no success.

But all of them were off the ground, however shakily. Nothing else mattered.

“Fall in!” He called over the rattle of the wind. Sunlight spilled grey through the thick cloud cover. “We return to the Stead!”

He pulled back on the rope to guide the bat around and swooped off up the road, the others not far behind. All too soon the little ground arrived back at the Marris Stead through the landing, for some of them, was less than stellar.

Dismounting with what he deemed to be the proper level of grace, dark cloak sweeping behind, Nathanos turned towards the cellar to find Putress halfway through emerging into the wan light. The Apothecary’s yellow eyes focused in on the sluggish drip of blood from the tips of his gauntlets and went wide.

“_Sire-!”_

“It’s a wound I dealt myself.” Nathanos cut him off. “But I’d appreciate it if you could stitch it up.”

“Of course! Right this way!” Putress turned and all but tumbled back down the stairs. Sighing, Nathanos followed; removing his glove and bracer as he went. “Forgive me for questioning you,” the Grand Apothecary picked up a needle and thread and returned to his side, “but a bat? In addition to the dragon _and_ your hounds? Don’t you think you perhaps have too many animal companions?”

Nathanos narrowed his glowing eyes at the other man who, had he still been living, would likely have paled. “I can stop whenever I want!” He snapped. “Don’t question me!”

“Apologies.” Putress drew the curved needle through his flesh and pulled the two sides of the wound back together. “We move on Corrin’s Crossing soon?”

“This coming dawn.” Nathanos grunted. “I’ve set the others to gathering stones to drop onto the Thuzadin’s heads.”

“It should serve to keep them busy in the meanwhile.” Putress tied off the string and clipped it. “What of the bat? Does it have a name?”

“Bloodwing.” The Dark Ranger righted his armor and turned towards the stairs. “Be prepared to accompany the rest of our forces.”

“Of course, Sire.” The Apothecary watched Nathanos ascend the stairs; the doors of the cellar slamming shut behind him.


	19. Chapter 19

With his forces mustered in formation, the bat riders supplied with stones, the horses mounted and his hounds in tow Nathanos had led the Forsaken eastward from the Stead towards their target. They’d reached the crumbling guard tower at the height of midnight and now the Dark Lord, astride the dragon’s back, sat overlooking Corrin’s Crossing. Belmonte, Putress and Mortuus gathered around him.

“The time to press our attack approaches.” He said. “And I have a job for each of you. Putress, you and your Apothecaries will join the bat riders and add your vials to the stones they’re dropping.”

“Of course, Sire!” Putress nodded so vigorously that the skull on his head clattered. “We’ve brought along a wide array of caustic substances, many of them acids, as well as a few bottles of…well, we’re not quite sure what the effects will be when they come into contact with the living. Or with open air.”

“As long as they’re not flammable.” Nathanos said. “We require use of this full town while we make our last preparations to move on Stratholme. Keep that in mind.”

“Yes, yes, of course! No more damage than necessary!”

“Very well. See to it that they’re ready when we set out.” As the Grand Apothecary scurried away, he turned his glowing eyes on the Deathstalker Commander. “Belmonte.”

The Rogue looked up at him. “Lord Blightcaller?”

“Take your men and secure the church where the Blight is being stored.” He said. “Those cannisters are of integral value and we cannot afford to lose them should the Scourge attempt to scuttle the building.”

“I will be done.” Belmonte moved off into the darkness towards where the other Deathstalkers were waiting.

“Mortuus.” Nathanos affixed the last of his officers in a stern gaze. “As my Grand Executer you have perhaps the most important job of all. Your task is to take the splinter force around to the western side of town and pinch them against the bulk of our strength. Even knowing that this is the position which carries the greatest risk, are you still willing to undertake the task?”

“Risk?” the man shook his head. “My Lord, I think you fail to understand. The Forsaken care nothing for ‘risk’. You’ve given us a second chance at life, returned to us what Arthas stole and gave us hope for a future as something more than a slave. Any of us would gladly fall ourselves to see your vision built. You needn’t ask after care of risk: give an order and it will be done.”

Nathanos stared at him in silence for a while before he returned his gaze to the town below. “Take your post. We leave soon.”

With a silent bow, Mortuus moved off and left the Dark Ranger to his vigil. The dragon below him shook its heavy head and clicked its teeth. A low rumble shaking its rotting form. The chains of its rough-crafted saddle clattered as he shifted his weight; first to the side to resituate himself and then, when the first signs of grey light appeared along the horizon, forward.

With a thunderous roar the dragon spread its wings and lifted from atop the hill. The cold early morning wind filled them like sails and buoyed both beast and rider skyward. Bat riders followed him up in a swirl of beating wings. Their ground forces rushed forward in a rolling tide of hooves and running feet. Though the Thuzadin in the settlement had long since fallen asleep and would present them the advantage of surprise, the undead staffing the area had no such need for rest and swiftly moved to intercept.

Skeletons and ghouls rushed forward in a mass of teeth and bone which was chewed to pieces by the Forsaken advance. But the Abominations and Nerubians that fell in behind them were not so easily dispatched. Directing the beast lower, the front lines of his men dropping away in his wake, Nathanos barked the command for attack. The dragon’s chest expanding as it inhaled before a rush of burning shadow spewed from its gnarled maw. Raining down on the Scourge below alongside stones and vials. A bottle of pink liquid reduced a ghoul to a quivering blob. A vial of acid shattered with an echoing crack, a smoking puddle eating into the cobbled road.

The Necromancers had finally managed to gather their wits and swarmed from the more inhabitable structures like ants from a broken hill. Half of them bolting to the west, no doubt in an effort to secure the cache of Blight which they’d amassed there. His Deathstalkers moved among them like sharks through dark water, vanishing and reappearing in flashes of bloodied steel. The remaining number of them had gathered in the town square and begun to shoot at him with their magic as if in an effort to knock him from the sky.

“It seems they want us on the ground.” He willed the dragon to descend with a sneer. “Let’s grant their wish!”

The dragon dropped onto the earth with a crash and an echoing roar. The cobbles cracked beneath its sudden landing. The Thuzadin scattering with shouts of alarm. The beast spat another stream of shadow. Head snapping one way, jaws clamping shut around a fleeing Necromancer with enough force to break him in half, and tail going the other. Flinging another pair into the wall of the inn. Teeth bared in a savage grin, watching as his hounds closed in from the outskirts of town, spear pointing the rest of the Forsaken, Nathanos notched an arrow and began to fire. Pegging most of the remaining Thuzadin in the back as they tried to flee. Catching a few in the chest and neck when they turned in a vain effort to fight back.

The undead which had bolstered their forces had been destroyed. The majority of the Necromancers had been dealt with. What remained were being pushed out. The town was all but theirs. And then…

“Scourge approaching from the west!”

Reinforcements would be of no aid to them now. Even still, Nathanos knew it was his responsibility to cut them off at the road and keep his people safe. Yanking back on the reigns, the Dark Ranger drove his mount back towards the dying stars as the sky turned pink behind him. Rising above the rooftops and wheeling out across the browning grass towards the advancing cadre. Ghouls and Abominations and Necromancers, and at their front…

Nathanos swooped low and bathed the path in another spill of burning shadows. The few that were fast enough to dive out of the way escaped, but most were caught within the blast and incinerated. Circling around, coming in for a second pass, he met Sylvanas’ gaze and banked off towards the old tower. Watching her bark orders at what remained of her forces and take off running after him. Drawing closer and closer until, at last, she stood before him. Looking, now, as he remembered her: his Queen, in all her glory.

It had been so long since he’d seen her. Since he’d held her. And having her now, so close, was a physical pain in his chest.

“Nathanos.” She stared at him, red eyes wide and ears pinned back in alarm. “A _dragon_? But…how? Where would you even-?”

“My Lady.” He could hear the catch in his voice as he dismounted. Dropping from the dragon’s back with a soft thud onto the earth. The lump in his throat growing as he caught sight of the bracer on her wrist. His bracer. The one he’d left behind in his haste to save his family. Except it wasn’t _really_ his. “There is…much I must explain.”

“Then explain it.” Confusion warred with concern and a bit of wariness in her face as she edged closer. The dragon snarled but made no move to attack. “Why do you look so troubled? Ever since you rode away from me in Quel’thalas I’ve longed to see you again. Can you not say the same?”

“How could I ever not wish to see you, Alah’ni? For you it’s been months since I rode from you in the doomed pursuit to save my home. But for me, it’s been years.” The arrows in his quiver clattered as his knees hit the ground. “I failed you.”

“Nathanos-.”

“Because I couldn’t come to grips with my shame. Blinded by my unworthiness of you I let myself remain ignorant to your need for me at your side. I wasn’t there when it truly mattered. They killed you.” Sylvanas seemed to have realized he wasn’t speaking of the fall of Quel’thalas. Her long eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “I made a deal with the Infinite Dragonflight, baring the cross of heir to the dark deal you made with the Jailor, to come back. To try again. But there could only be one.” Unable to bare looking at her as the truth of what that meant dawned across her features, he dropped her gaze. “Forgive me, for I’m not the man you love. I killed him.”

He expected a rebuke. A curse. Perhaps an attack. But, for a long moment, nothing happened. Then, cold fingers found his cheek. Tipping his chin back to meet the kiss which followed. His shaking hands rose to clasp her back and hold her there for those precious moments before she broke away.

“How could you ever be so foolish as to think such a thing?” she demanded. “You may not be the version that I knew. You may be crueler, now, having existed like this for so long. But you are still, and always will be, _my_ Nathanos. Though a part of my will grieve for him, I’ve lost nothing.”

“Alah’ni-.”

“Hush.” Her tone brokered no argument as she pulled him in again. This time to proper his head against her shoulder. “We’ll do better this time. We still have each other, my King. And that is all that matters now.”

“Stay with me.” Nathanos spoke into the cold mail of her breastplate, knowing already it wasn’t yet time but unable to stop himself.

Sylvanas, too, seemed to know it. Her smile edged with melancholy amusement as she rose and pulled him with her. “Soon.” She said. “But not yet.” With the tenderness she’d always seemed to reserve for him, a touch that almost broke him, the Banshee Queen ran her fingers through his dark hair. “Arthas will return soon and I will have my chance to strike him. And once he’s been dispatched, I’ll come to find you. And we can finally be together. Openly. As we always should have been.”

“My Lady.”

“I’ve treated you as if you’re something to be ashamed of for too long already.”

“Out of necessity.” Delicately, aware of the archer’s talons on his fingers, Nathanos reached up to cover the hand set against his cheek with one of his own. “And at my insistence. Because I didn’t want to damage you.”

“There was no damage that our love could not have healed.” Sylvanas said. “No more. I will not have my King bent beneath shame that he does not deserve.”

“I left my shame behind.” Nathanos said. “I’ve made this curse my strength. As have all our people.”

“Our people.” She echoed, looking down over Corrin’s Crossing. The last of the Scourge forces had been dispatched and the fighting in the town had fallen silent. “What do you call themselves?”

“The Forsaken.” Nathanos stepped up beside her and wrapped her in his arms. “I’ve told them of their Queen. They want to meet you.”

“And they shall. Soon.” She smirked down at him, answering his raised eyebrow with “you speak of yourself as King, yet speak of them like a proud father.”

“Only if they’re _our_ children.”

“Our children.” She repeated. “If only we could have had children of our own.”

“That wasn’t our fate.”

“No.” Sylvanas said. “But we forge our own destiny, now. Together.”

“Soon,” Nathanos echoed, “but not yet.”

“They’re waiting for you.” She said. “And I must return to report our resonant defeat to Kel’thuzad.” Sylvanas turned her head towards him and Nathanos kissed her, once more, before letting her slip away. “It won’t be long now, my love.”

“No. Not long.” He said. “But after so much squandered time, even a moment is an eternity.”

“Then let us not waste this second chance.”

Nathanos nodded. “Farewell, my Lady.”

With a last longing gaze shared between them, he watched her turn and rise into the air. Her Banshee form a trail of shadows lifting up and away from him. Back west, towards the ruins of the capital. Once she’d vanished from his sight, he turned and pulled himself back up into the saddle. Gliding down to the ruined square.

He was greeted with silent anticipation, the whole of his forces gathered to await his return. Nathanos sighed, then raised his voice so that it echoed off the collapsing buildings. “Corrin’s Crossing belongs to the Forsaken!” He said. “And soon, so shall all of Lordaeron! These are _our_ lands and we will not allow _anyone_ to take them from us! Not the Living. Not the Scourge.” A chorus of cheers met his declaration. The Dark Ranger, still astride his mount, turned to his officers. “Ensure that things proceed here in an orderly manner. I’m going to return to the Stead and collect those we left behind.”

“Of course, Sire.” Putress was quick to say. “We’ll ensure that nothing undesirable occurs during your absence.”

Nathanos grunted in response and prodded his mount into motion. The drake taking wing and banking off towards the Marris Stead. The home where he’d been born, had lived and had died soon coming into view.

He’d barely managed to swing down from its jagged back before something crashed into his legs. Looking down, he was met with the sight of a mop of tangled hair. “Hello, Grace.” The girl didn’t look up at him and simply stood there with her arms around his knees, which was about as far up on him as she came.

“I apologize, Lord Blightcaller.” Matron Coldlight rushed out of the house towards him. Alexander peering curiously around the doorframe after her. “She’s been waiting at the door for your return and ran out before I could stop her.”

“She’s a child.” He rested a gentle hand atop the little girl’s head. “She doesn’t know any better. And, because of Arthas, she’ll never get the chance to learn.”

“She’s fond of you.” She watched as he carefully extracted himself from the girl’s grip and knelt down to her eyelevel. Allowing Grace to attach herself to his shoulders instead of his knees. “You’ve raised one of your own?”

“A boy.” He crossed the uneven grass to the door of the Stead and set Grace down on the floor.

“Yours?”

Nathanos grit his teeth and straightened. “Gather the children into the cart. We head to Corrin’s Crossing.” He said. “Our time here is done.”

“Of course.” Gently taking Grace by the hand, who allowed herself to be pulled away from him only with reluctance, Matron Coldlight called to the other children and led them towards the door. Helping each up into the back of the wagon which had had been strapped to the back of the sole remaining horse. Nathanos swept passed them and clambered back up onto the dragon’s back. Taking one final long glance over his shoulder at the place that had once been his home before driving his mount into the sky.


	20. Chapter 20

Though performance was never something she often indulged in, Sylvanas never the less had a flare for the dramatic and wasn’t afraid to make use of it when she needed to. As such, despite not being injured from her confrontation with Nathanos-a bit singed, perhaps, but unhurt-the Banshee Queen made certain to cut a wobbling path across the sky once she came within sight of the capital city’s ruins. Ensuring that her landing looked like a crash when, really, it was fully controlled and only mildly painful, and rolled to a stop at Arthas’ feet.

The Lich King’s champion looked down at her with pitiless eyes. “Quite the entrance, Lady Windrunner.” He drawled. “Kel’thuzad has informed me that he dispatched you, at the head of a dagger force, to aid Corrin’s Crossing against that rebel’s attack. From the look of you, I take it that you failed.”

The Forsaken had overwhelmed and crushed the Scourge forces in the area, under Nathanos’ cunning leadership. Arthas had truly been so arrogant as to expect such a small response would be of aid? “The rebel’s forces were much larger than we expected; whatever power that he wields has been used to elevate the ghouls he stole to something else. They’re intelligent and we were overwhelmed.” She said. “He cornered me and it was all that I could do to escape. How could I have hoped to defeat him when _you_ were overwhelmed?”

The Lich King’s Champion made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “Have you any good news, ‘Banshee Queen’?”

“I know where he’s held himself up.” She knew the Marris Stead almost as well as Nathanos did; there, she’d have almost as great of an advantage as she would back in Quel’thalas. This would be her best chance to be done with him, and she was going to take it. “We should take my Banshees with us. With numbers and surprise, we’ll be able to subdue him.”

Arthas observed her for a long moment, considering, then nodded and turned towards the broken gates. “Call your Banshees, Sylvanas, while I collect Invincible. We’ll corner that rebellious wretch in his hole and destroy him!”

“Gladly, Sire.”

Gladly indeed.

Sylvanas watched the fallen Prince’s heavily armored form retreat around the ridged contours of a broken pillar, unable to keep a sharp smile from tugging at the corners of her lips, and then turned away herself. Traveling swiftly over the broken ground of what had once been the capital city’s courtyard, weeds and scattered bits of stone crunching underfoot, and paused to wait at the broken front gate. Her Banshees gathered around her moments later, their pale forms shedding an opalescent glow across the shadowed grey-tinged grass. Areiel. Kitala. Vorel. All recognizable faces. All Rangers who’d served under her command. Rangers that she’d failed.

No more.

“Tonight, is the night of our vengeance.” To a passive onlooker, or a lurking spy, her words would seem innocuous: aimed, no doubt, at the ‘rebel beast’ rather than at Arthas. Sylvanas wasn’t certain that her Banshees even knew, or dared assume, she’d attempt to rebel. She hadn’t risked revealing her plans to any of them, or how lax the Lich King’s grip on her had become, lest matters somehow make it back to the Frozen Throne.

Tonight, they would be free.

Tonight, the process of regaining some of what had been stolen from them would commence.

Tonight, they would start anew.

But tonight would not be the night which she returned to Nathanos’ side. Reunited, formally, with her King and his Forsaken. It was not to be a night of celebration, at least over the fact that she’d been restored his stalwart company. No. It would be some time yet before she could return to her beloved’s arms.

There was still much that needed to be done. And dispatching Arthas was only the beginning, as there were still a certain three Dread Lords which needed taking care of.

_Soon, my love._ She knew he would be fine. Nathanos had an army of his own, years of experience in his unliving state, a Dragon and a mysterious darkness which hissed and throbbed just beneath his skin. In the face of him, the Champion of the Frozen Throne was little more than a toothless lion cub. And yet, Sylvanas couldn’t help herself but fear for him. For what affect that very power, even now, might be having on him that he’d never allow anyone else to see. What harm it might be doing.

The power that had come into his hands, it seemed, through her.

Invincible rounded the corner of the gate with a sharp whinny and barreled passed. Arthas not sparing even a glance in her direction as her Banshees scattered with hisses of displeasure. Sylvanas forced her concerns and her thoughts of Nathanos aside and took off after him. Her feet flying over the rolling grassy hills with the speed and grace of a deer, then lifting skyward in a whirl of bruise-dark smoke. Streaking through the air and catching up with the Death Knight a few moments later.

Out across the Glade, through the narrow mountain pass and over the arch of the grey stone bridge which hung above the murky waters of the Throndroril. Once on the other side, Arthas slowed to a stop and turned to face her at last.

“Well, Lady Windrunner. Where is this place?”

“Not far now,” she answered, forcing her voice to remain calm in spite of the ever-mounting anticipation which coiled through her clotted blood. “An old farmstead, just off the main road about three miles from here, is where he’s taken to squatting.”

Growling low in this throat like a rabid dog, Arthas didn’t think to question the matter or concern himself with potential dangers. He simply prodded his mount back into motion. Banshees at her back and once more in her corporeal form, Sylvanas followed. Allowing her red gaze to rove over the ruined shells of what had once been familiar land marks: the towering rowan tree which pointed out the halfway mark between the river and farm which she knew had been his sanctuary; the shattered, empty skeletons of the homes of his nearest neighbors. A pang of loss for all that could have been but now never would be when, at last, she set foot onto the path which coiled up the ridge.

She could still remember when last she’d been there like it was yesterday. The smell of the late season wild flowers and sunbaked earth in the warm air. Nathanos, backlit by the soft glow of falling evening, leaning against the paddock fence, shirt rumpled and only half-buttoned and with hay in his dark hair. A half-blind hound, and his cousin, at his feet.

But there was none of that, now. The paddock was empty. The grass within it shriveled and dead and the fence fallen down: no doubt crashed through by meat wagons and abominations during the initial invasion of the Scourge. The ruined, empty farm house at the top of the hill stared sightlessly out across a once vibrant land now left just as dead as they were.

Arthas threw himself from Invincible’s saddle, his long cloak cracking behind him and his plate boots coughing clouds of dust against the earth.

“_Where are you, coward?”_ He snarled into the stillness all around them “_Show yourself and face justice for your defiance!”_

“Justice indeed.” Sylvanas took a steady aim and fired. The Death Knight let out a grunt of surprise, stumbling slightly at the impact, and turned to face her. Only for a second arrow to strike his knee and bring him down, heavily, to the ground. “But the one facing it will be you, Arthas. Nathanos has already moved on from this place. He won’t be coming back.”

“What do you think you’re doing, you Elven Witch!” Arthas showed his teeth in a snarl of impotence. Tried to rise, but the arrow lodged in the hinge of his armor kept him pinned. “I am your _King!_ How _dare_ you!”

“The only King_ I_ know, Arthas, is the man who once lived on the soil against which you now find yourself forced to kneel. The King beside whom I stand as Queen. **_You_** are nothing but a spineless wretch!” Sylvanas drew back the string of her bow once more. Leveling a Black Arrow at his chest. “And it will be my pleasure to send you back to the darkness you crawled out of.”

She never got the chance to fire. A frost bolt knocking the bow from her hand and sending her arrow whizzing away into the distance. Her Banshees lunged to shield her moment of weakness but Kel’thuzad was quicker and kept them at bay with a glimmering violet shell of arcane magic. His skeletal fingers wrenching the wounded Death Knight back onto his feet a split second before both winked out of sight.

“_Damn you!”_ She hadn’t counted on intervention by the damnable Arch Lich; Kel’thuzad, it seemed, was neither as easily fooled by her compliance as Ner’zhul nor as blinded by arrogance as Arthas. And now, at the last possible moment, the Frozen Throne’s Champion had been spared his well-deserved fate. And she had lost her chance for revenge. “_Come back!”_

But it was pointless. Pointless to scream and rage, no matter how much she wanted to. Pointless to give chase, though her hunter instincts demanded she didn’t allow her prey to slip through her claws without a fight.

Another chance would come. In time. She’d have to wait and, in the meanwhile, concern herself with other matters.

“Lady Windrunner,” the voice of one of her Banshee’s drew her back to the present, “should we pursue them?”

“It would be pointless, Areiel.” She said. “It will be some time indeed before Arthas has licked his wounds, and wounded pride, enough to come after us. And, by then, with how weak the Lich King grows, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’d been called North. We’ve better things to be doing.”

“Lady Windrunner?”

“Gather your sisters together. Send those who can to find their bodies.” She said. “Then leave me. We cannot stay here, but…I require some time alone.”

None of them spoke on the matter, rising away into the red toned sky. Their glowing forms vanishing among the thick layer of clouds. Alone, Sylvanas turned her attention to the building before her. The building which, once, had been Nathanos’ home.

For a long moment she simply stood there, hesitating, then reached out to push open the door. Hung crooked off its hinges, the old wood shrieked as it swung inwards and rattled against the opposite wall. Nothing was inside but silence, yet it caused her to hesitate once more before stepping over the threshold. The creak of her weight against the floorboards freeing the memories which infested the place to swoop down from the rafters like carrion birds.

_How strange it was to be so openly accepted, not only into their home but into their family. The notion of his feelings for her enough to make her blood in the eyes of his kin. Dinner had been an affair of warmth and intimacy unique to only the closest knit of units, and Sylvanas couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever experienced such a thing. Her own family had been broken for years, now. And among her men, there never failed to be that ever-present undercurrent of propriety which defined their gap in rank. But there’d been nothing at that table but laughter, smiles and Nathanos’ occasional obligatory and utterly biteless grumblings aimed in the direction of young Stephon’s ever overbrimming enthusiasm. Now, with his mother having turned in for the night and his cousin curled up asleep with his two massive troll hounds, mugs of eggnog in their hands-half drunk and now lukewarm-they finally found themselves something close to alone._

_ Nathanos was staring out into the darkness, somewhere beyond the pane of window glass cut in black with night and lined in blue-tinged snow. Sylvanas wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his back. Drank in his warmth. How solid, real and alive he felt beneath her fingertips, through the thin cotton of his shirt. Felt the rise and fall of his breaths and the seamless way his muscles moved as he covered one of her hands with his own._

_ They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Tomorrow was Wintersveil, complete with all the madness which came with a major holiday, but in that moment, it was just the two of them, staring together into the falling snow._

Another step. Another memory.

_“My farmhand,” dripping wet with water from the Throndroril, Nathanos’ heavy footsteps thudded over the threshold of the Stead’s back door, “is an idiot!”_

_ Sylvanas held back a snort of laughter, drawing the gaze of disgruntled brown eyes. “Let something out of the paddock again?” She snickered. “Did you have to go swimming with the sheep, Alah’o?” He didn’t answer. Advancing with the slow, measured pace of a hunting lynx. Intent glittering in his gaze. “Don’t you dare, Marris. You’re covered in-.”_

_ She didn’t get the chance to say ‘mud’ before he sprang. Capturing her with his arms as she tried to escape across the room. Shrieking, half with laughter, as river water smeared her own clothing. Wet fabric sticking to her skin. The warmth of his body sinking into hers in all the places where they touched, gently pinning her beneath him._

_ “I’m glad you find my predicament so amusing, Alah’ni.” She felt the rumble of his voice when he spoke. “I hope this comes close enough to sharing my experience for your favor.”_

_ “I am your superior officer!” But there was too much laughter in her voice for her words to have any room for authority. _

_ “How could I ever forget? Apologies, my Lady Moon.” He said. “Allow me to display just how remorseful I am for the oversight.”_

_ His mouth was warm and soft. Familiar as it slotted against hers. The wiry hairs of his beard tickling her skin as her hands rose to grip the back of his neck. _

_ “Eew!”_

_ Nathanos jerked back, cursing under his breath, and turned his gaze onto his ten-year-old cousin. “Go and feed the hounds, Stephon!” The boy didn’t need to be told twice and scampered out the door the older man had come through not long before. The old wood swinging shut behind him with a bang. “Now,” still looking somewhat peeved over the interruption, he returned his attention to her, “where were we?”_

The room in which she stood was all but unrecognizable to the one in her memories. The floor boards scuffed and scattered with dirt and leaves tracked in from outside. The table off set from its normal position and the chairs in a mad disarray. Sylvanas’ eyes swept across the ruined room and landed on something which appeared rather out of place.

Lying on the floor was a blood splattered doll. Armored boots tapping against the wood, she bent low and picked it up. Staring into its hazy button eyes. It had been half-jokingly that she’d claimed he looked on the Forsaken as if they were his children, yet she’d never considered that there might actually _be_ children who’d fallen afflicted with this damnable curse.

And yet here, in her hands, she held undeniable proof of just how far the damage went.

The Lich King’s Champion claimed himself to be Lordaeron’s rightful King, yet he took what he desired of those who should have been his people without thought or remorse and left only suffering behind. Nathanos had been mocked by him for having low born blood, yet in taking those Menethil had cast aside from the darkness, granting them what shelter that he could beneath the remnants of his own roof, he’d proved himself to be the better King.

Sylvanas tucked the little doll away in the folds of her cloak and turned her back on the room. The home. All the memories inside of it of a life to which there was no returning. Stepping back through the open door and out into the hazy orange glow of sunlight filtering down through a mist of plague. Looking out across the dying grass, the broken cobbled path and the twisted trees towards the distant form of Corrin’s Crossing.

The Scourge would not retain their grip on Lordaeron for very long.


	21. Chapter 21

The fires their push on the city had set had since been doused with water from the nearby lake and smudged the red sky with a sooty pall of smoke. Though his forces had only been there for the better part of two hours, Corrin’s Crossing had already been stripped of any and all Scourge paraphernalia: banners bearing the damnable sigil of the fool who would be King piled alongside Thuzadin robes and unusable knickknacks inside the dried out fountain in the center of town, no doubt destined to soon be set alight. The reagents and dark tomes that the Necromancers had been using for their craft doubtlessly taken by Putress and his Apothecaries for their own uses.

Having left the dragon where he’d landed just outside town, Nathanos had followed the cart into the settlement on foot until it stopped outside of a building. Likely an inn, once, though the Dark Ranger really couldn’t tell.

“This will be suitable for the children until we move on Stratholme?”

Dismounting the front bench of the cart and smoothing wrinkles from her skirt, Matron Coldlight said “more than enough, Lord Blightcaller” with a lipless smile. Apparently unbothered by his gruff demeanor. Alexander watched their interaction from the back of the cart, either failing to notice Grace’s well progressed effort to climb out on her own or not bothering to stop her. Nathanos hurriedly lifted the little girl into his arms to keep her from toppling onto the cobbled road; well aware detaching her wouldn’t be simply done now that she’d resumed her grip on his neck, and belatedly realizing the doll which might have been leveraged as a distraction had been left behind at the Stead, he didn’t try to put her down. “They’ll have plenty of space, even before we move to a larger city.”

“I’ll refer to your better knowledge in this regard.” Nathanos said. “Anything that you need further, alert someone. Or come to me directly. To the best of our current ability, it will be taken care of.” He shifted Grace’s weight in his arms. “Do you need assistance herding the children inside?”

“No, my Lord.” She reassured him. “Shall I take Grace off of you?”

The girl’s grip on his shoulders tightened and she tucked her head under his chin. Nathanos set a steady hand against the small of her back. “I can take her for a while, though I will be setting out soon. There’s business that requires my attention: a certain Dread Lord lurking among the Alliance Resistance imbeciles.” He said. “I’ll return her before I depart.”

“I’ll take care of the horse, Matron!” Alexander headed excitedly for the front of the cart and began fiddling with the horse’s lashings. Noticing the woman’s worried glance, Nathanos sighed.

“I’ll watch him.”

Coldlight looked surprised. “My Lord, that isn’t-.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s necessary. A leader’s place is to care for their people.” Be they a squad of Rangers, most of whom held him in little regard, or a faction of free willed undead. “I will not make Arthas’ mistakes.” Or repeat his own.

“You, Lord Blightcaller, could never be like Arthas.”

“I’m sure that the Living would firmly disagree.” If they didn’t already, they would soon.

“The Living don’t know you.”

One among them did. Nathanos pushed such thoughts aside and turned to Alexander; the boy had successfully freed the horse and was looking at him expectantly.

“The stable should be just over here, if memory serves.” He grunted and turned to walk away. “Come along.”

Nathanos didn’t need to look back to ensure the boy was following him. The clod of hooves went for enough as testament.

“Sir?”

He glanced over. “What is it, Alexander?” The boy’s eyes had lost their former color beneath the milky haze of death and his features had been ravaged by the beast that had taken his life-a ghoul, most likely-but even still, with his mannerisms and partiality to his hounds, he reminded Nathanos painfully of his cousin.

“Where are you going? After we’ve put the horse away?”

“To take stake of what we’ve acquired; both Belmonte and Putress, with his Apothecaries, are waiting to fill me in regarding assets.”

“And after that?”

The child was perceptive. Another thing that reminded him of Stephon. Nathanos sighed. “I’ll be paying a visit to the Alliance Resistance.”

“The Living?” the boy looked horrified. “But they’re dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as I am.” Even still, it wouldn’t do to come crashing down into the middle of their encampment. Not only did he not want to be promptly doused in Holy magic, but there was the Dread Lord to consider. “And I won’t be allowing them to notice my presence, if such can be helped. With luck, I can gain what I hope to from afar.” Still, the boy fidgeted. “Is there something else?”

“Rancor…is coming with you?”

“A hunter isn’t often without his companion.” Nathanos didn’t miss the way he wilted. “Though it’s best I keep to bringing only one of my hounds on this mission, lest too large a presence alert the humans. “I’ll send the rest along before I leave, if I can trust you to oversee their care.”

Alexander’s good eye widened, then a smile broke over his face. “Yes! I’ll take good care of them, Sir! I’ll go and get a room ready!”

Nathanos seized the child, gently, by the arm when he tried to rush past him. “Let’s finish with the horse first, Darkling.”

“Oh! R-Right!”

The stable was in sight, now; the older man took mercy on the boy and dismissed him along with Grace once they reached the leaning buildings door and saw to securing the horse into a stall himself. Hanging the harness on a peg on the wall, Nathanos adjusted where the clasp of his cloak lay against his throat and made his way to the town square.

As expected, he found Belmonte and Mortuus waiting for him there.

“The children have been seen to; ensure some of your Deathstalkers and your Dread guards are dispatched near the building. I’ll tolerate no risk that something will attempt to cause them harm, living or otherwise.”

“Of course, Sire.” Mortuus said. “It will be done.”

Satisfied as the Grand High Executer turned to leave, Nathanos redirected his full attention onto his Deathstalker Commander. “It seems our forces were quite thorough.”

Belmonte looked down at the pile of Scourge paraphernalia and rattled a laugh. “The Forsaken won’t tolerate the idols of another God.” His sallow eyes returned to him. “We have our own.”

“I don’t envy Gods, Belmonte.”

“Little to envy of those one stands among.”

Nathanos had no want of being worshiped, but if this was what the Forsaken chose, he wouldn’t stop them. And, he supposed, he shouldn’t be surprised given how they’d come to view Sylvanas, back on the Azeroth he’d come from. “What is it that you’ve found?”

The Rogue made no attempt to call him on the change of subject. Expression breaking out into a rictus grin. “We discovered a worthwhile surprise, which will serve to further our push against the Scourge and all our foes after them.” He turned to lead him down a narrow side street. “Come with me.”

Nathanos fell in behind the other undead, not paying the fountain another instant of mind. For a short while the only sounds were the faint crunch of debris and rock beneath their feet until they arrived at a large low set building the door of which Belmonte pushed open.

He stepped in through the door and stopped. A savage grin curling on his own lips. “Meat wagons.”

“Approximately thirty of them.” The Death Stalker Commander said. “All in perfect working condition, ready to be deployed. Combined with Putress’ work duplicating both the canisters that we discovered and the Blight contained inside them they’ll be a great asset to our forces.”

Siege weapons to go beside the dragon. A means through which more of his men could cover more ground more quickly. Another arrow in his quiver to send against all those who would dare threaten the rite his people had to exist. “Speaking of my Grand Apothecary,” Nathanos said, “where is Putress?”

“He’s set up the Plague cauldron about five minutes’ walk outside of town, protected by a contingent of our best Dread guards.” Belmonte closed the door of the building with a clank. “I’ll take you to him now.”

Nathanos acknowledged as much with a grunt and followed the Rogue out of town. Passing Animus and Frenzy on their way, both of whom rose from where they’d lounged and fell in behind them. The scent of Blight in the air became apparent before the Apothecary encampment came into view. The cauldron, bolted down with the heavy chains they’d retrieved from Silverpine, boiled over with vibrant green goo. Putress monitoring the jumping mass of metal from a bit too close of a distance to be considerable as safe. Numerous tables cluttered with tools and vials of humors and poisons, each staffed by one or two of the horse skull wearing mad man’s men.

“Sire!” Nathanos’ concerns for how close the other undead was standing proved to be founded, as the moment the ever over eager Apothecary caught sight of him, he lost his footing and nearly toppled into the cauldron himself. Only by lounging forwards and seizing him from behind.

“Watch yourself!” He growled, curls of the shadowy power of the Maw hanging in the air around them. “I can’t afford to lose my Grand Apothecary to one of the Scourge’s foul concoctions. Nor to one of his own.” Assured the man was on slightly more solid ground, Nathanos demanded “what do you have to report?”

“We’ve begun the process of reverse engineering the Blight from the samples that we’ve recovered and should be successful at fully reproducing it soon, at which point improvements on the existing formula can begin.” The Grand Apothecary said. “The Blight will soon be one of many reliable weapons on your arsenal, Sire! The Royal Apothecary Society will not disappoint!”

Of that much Nathanos was well aware; Putress had been the one ultimately responsible for transforming the Blight into a terrifying weapon. A terrifying weapon that he’d gone on to deploy at the Wrath Gate, on Varimathras’ order. “And the cannisters?”

“Child’s play, once we have a steady supply of iron. They’re really quite simply made. To the point where a Murloc, even, wouldn’t find it terribly troubling to build one.” He said. “Belmonte showed you what he found?”

“The meat wagons, yes.” Rend leapt up onto the platform beside him and butted his head into his knee. Nathanos dropped a hand onto the hound’s head. “They’ll be invaluable in our future efforts. As will your work here. I’m pleased with both of you.”

“Of course, Sire! A pleasure to serve! Always a pleasure!”

Belmonte contained his acknowledgement of the praise to a nod and a quiet “my Lord” but Nathanos wasn’t blind to the pride that he took in it.

“Now, I’ve a matter to which I must attend at the base of the Alliance Resistance.” He said. “While I’m away, Belmonte, I expect you and your Deathstalkers to be using the time to measure Stratholme and its defenses. We march soon. Putress, continue as you are.”

Dismounting the platform, Nathanos called both hounds to his side and set off back towards the town. Stopping on the outskirts to address his pets. “Collect your brothers. Send Rancor to me; he’ll join me in this hunt. The rest of you are to head to the large building at the end of the lane. Alexander will see to your care while I’m away.”

The hounds snorted at him and trotted off, disappearing among the twisted streets. Nathanos stood there. Waiting. Before long, a point of blue light appeared between two of the crumbling houses. Rancor crept towards him through the browning grass.

“Let’s go hunting.”

The Plaguehound’s ears perked up and he pet out a rumbling bark. Falling into step behind him as Nathanos pathed around the lake and struck out across the withered corpse of what had once been Eastweald. Avoiding the main roads and the remaining Scourge holdings left in the area. Red eyes alert for any signs of motion, poised to strike at any moment, but he encountered nothing.

The town which had come to be the main staging ground of the limited and beleaguered forces calling themselves the Alliance Resistance wasn’t quite as ramshackle as the rest of the settlements the Scourge had left behind, guarded by sentries posted in pairs.

Rancor grumbled beside him. Nathanos motioned the hound for silence and crept free of the treelined. Low to the ground. Making use of the falling darkness to conceal himself. Neither of the nearest sentries noticed his presence. Nathanos clambered up the near face pf a building and onto the roof. Perching there like a gargoyle. Scanning what he could see of the streets: there were no High Elves present now, if any had been before-unsurprising, as Kael’thas alliance with Vashj had come and passed-but he did catch sight of the stout set form of a Dwarf among the Human soldiers. There were a few civilians present as well, mostly merchants or tradesmen of some form: those necessary to keep such an outpost going at something close to a forward lurch.

Nathanos reached out across the settlement with his powers. Dark, seeking tendrils sweeping over the inhabitants and making their very souls shudder within the confines of their flesh. Though beyond a seeping chill and, for the Priests and Paladins among them a recognition of the lurking presence of deep evil, he doubted any of them had taken notice. Human. Dwarf. And then…

The fel green point of light was unmistakable.

“Found you.” Darkness had fully fallen, now, and it combined with his black thorny armor to conceal his passage over top the roofs. His footsteps silent. Every motion filled with hunting grace.

It was the largest building in the settlement where the light was coming from, accompanied by two others: Humans, at least one of whose identity he could guess at. A guess which was confirmed a moment later when Garithos emerged, followed by Tyrosus and another Human he didn’t recognize.

A human who was actually a Nathrezim in disguise.

Both former Scarlet and shrouded Demon paused and turned. Nathanos stilling in the shadows. Remaining motionless, as only one of the undead truly could, until Garithos’ demand of “Something wrong, Tyrosus? Councilor Blackwood?” pulled their attention away.

It had been, perhaps, a vain hope to think he could strike the Demon down that night and have done with it. But that didn’t stop him from hissing a handful of curses, in a handful of languages, as he rose from his crouch and flitted away, back into the trees.

It seemed that he would need to be more delicate. Present himself as still among the Living. Draw Garithos into his clutches enough to make use of his forces in reclaiming the ruined capital city for the Forsaken before dispatching him. And deal with the hidden Demon as well. He could use the time before their forces pressed forward in taking Stratholme to start in on the process; with any luck, the entire span of it, once started, wouldn’t take him over long.

His last order of business would be to locate a certain former Scarlet he’d once encountered on the road.


	22. Chapter 22

The best advice Tyrosus had been able to give him, though the older man had understood his feelings, was to give up the matter for lost. To allow the full might of what forces that those left alive in the world, backed by the Light, could muster to handle things rather than attempting to do so himself. His father was a Horseman of the Lich King, now. The strongest of the four. A rung below Arthas and Kel’thuzad. To face him. To save him. The thought alone was suicide.

Yet Darion couldn’t let it go. He’d met dead end after dead end but had pushed on. Stubbornly. Futilely. And the Light, it seemed, had recognized his quest enough to grant him a name. A name belonging to a man whom he’d have to seek. Who would have something for him which might come close to approaching an answer. So the young former Scarlet had set out, alone, into the dying wilderness of what had become the Plaguelands in search of the man who’d once been the governor of the principality of Hearthglen before he’d been cast out for the crime of helping an Orc.

Tirion Fordring.

Darkness had set in a handful of hours before and now lay thick across the land. The small fire in front of him, already smouldering low, did little to dispel it or to warm him. He’d tied his horse to the branch of a nearby pine-the one which had appeared to be the sturdiest among its brethren-and now sat with his back propped against a boulder and his sword resting across his lap. The embers pulsed with orange light. The cold, uneven contours of the stone pressed into his back. 

Maybe he could have thought this through a little more. Maybe he could have asked more questions, or any questions at all regarding where Tirion might be found and whether or not the man was even still alive, before he’d set out. But there was nothing for it now. Heading back wasn’t an option. Not with how far he’d already come. He’d just have to trust that the Light would provide.

The dying fire kicked up a spiral of sparks with the crumbling crack of wood burned through, but Darion was too concerned with the sudden flush of cold that had swept over him to notice. Entirely connected to the half-hunted sense of being watched rather than the nip of the sun’s absence. Stilling, unwinding his arms enough from the weapon to grip it by the hilt, the young man scanned the trees around him. Squinting into the unrelenting black. Interrogating the shadows for any signs of lurking foes but finding nothing.

Skin crawling, hardly daring to breathe, he looked up.

Red eyes, owlish and unimpressed, gazed down at him from where the mysterious undead he’d encountered once before on the road perched atop the boulder like a lynx prepared to pounce. “I’d have thought, Mograine, that you’d have learned better of making camps alone and out in the open at night.” He rumbled. “Never mind the stupidity of allowing your mind to wander when there’s no one else to watch your back.” He leapt from his perch, but not onto him. Landing with a thud just to his right and circling the boulder’s base. Casting a handful of the firewood Darion had gathered before darkness fell into the flagging flames. “Letting that die won’t help anything.”

“Nathanos.” If the Fallen Ranger cared, either way, that he’d remembered his name he showed no sign of it. “What are you doing out here?”

“What indeed.” As the powerful undead measured him, close enough to reach out and break his neck if he wished to, or to bite him and spread his curse, Darion couldn’t help but notice how similar the threading of black and orange in those pitiless hellfire eyes were to the embers he’d been gazing at before. “To answer your question in simple enough terms a Forest Troll could understand, I was looking for you. As I said before, the dead know many things. And though my Master is much darker than the force you answer to, sometimes the Light and Shadow coincide in this world.”

“That explains nothing!” Could it be true? Had the Light really sent him, of all things, a monster as a guide?

“You can’t truly be this much of a dolt!” The other man snapped. “Very well. I’ll spell it out for you. Tirion Fordring. I know that you seek him. I know why. And I know where he is: squatting in a hut among the ruins of a town just west of Stratholme. Of course, you’ll never make it through the Plaguewood on your own.”

The blighted forest just outside the ruined city, which had been the origin point of the plague of Undeath that had ravaged Lordaeron, and was filled with the strongest of the Lich King’s servants left in the land now that Naxxramas had disappeared and Arthas, seemingly, had retreated. “You’re offering to help me?”

The smile which had unfurled across the undead’s bearded face lacked any trace of warmth and showcased all his teeth. “For a price.” A shudder passed through him, but Nathanos spoke again before he could reply. “Don’t look so stricken. What I want from this will be no loss for you. In fact, it will only aid the push to reclaim these lands from the fetid talons of the Scourge.”

From his current standpoint, that seemed unlikely. But Darion didn’t see many other avenues before him. “Convince me.”

“A Legion agent hides among your leadership. A Nathrezim by name of Detheroc, brother to Varimathras and Balnazzar, keeps Garithos under powerful mind control. So long as the Felspawn is permitted to exist, this land will never be free of its taint.”

“And you, one of the undead yourself, want it to be freed?” Darion couldn’t help a derisive snort. Nathanos’ glowing eyes narrowed and the prospect of danger nettled his spine. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you so easily.”

A corner of his lips had pulled down; if anything, the resulting expression was even more discomforting. “I’ll admit that I have my own motives for wanting Othmar off his leash, and the demon scum removed from the face of this planet. My sole desire is the safety of my people: the Forsaken. The presence of Scourge power here, so close by, puts their freedom at peril. I will not let them suffer further while I can prevent it.” That a long lasting truce with the Living to share the land, or even to divide it, would never occur was one reality Darion thought better of mentioning. And Nathanos, it seemed, had grown impatient with their conversation. His hand thrusting forward into his face. Dark magic the young Paladin had never seen coiling around his fingers. “I’ll help you make it to Fordring, and make it back, alive. In return, you’ll tell Garithos you encountered me on my way back north from seeing family to safety in Stormwind and led me to the resistance because I was a soldier who wanted to fight. Choose!”

As if he had a choice.

Darion forced his remaining hesitance aside and clasped the once man’s hand with all the force that he could. Feeling the chill of mail. The clatter of archer’s talons against his own plate.And then the darkness bit him. Driving searing teeth into his flesh with force enough to make the Light within him shudder. All vitality vacating his body a split second before everything went black.

When he regained consciousness the faint light of morning stretched its way through the frayed canopy of dying pines, the fire had died away and a bright blue plaguehound was curled up on his chest. Darion wheezed beneath its weight for a moment, collecting his barings, then pushed it off. The animal flopped onto its side with a grunt, sent him a betrayed glare, then picked itself up and slunk away to its Master’s open hand.

“You were warmer than the ground.” Nathanos grunted by way of explanation, lightly scratching under the hound’s chin. “Are you prepared to leave, Mograine?”

“What did you do to me?”

“What indeed.” That sharp sneer again. The same dark power threading through his fingers like a living serpent, this time speckled with seams of something silver. “I took something from you. Little enough of it that you won’t notice, provided you’re not without it for too long.”

Nathanos only seemed amused by the horror which flashed across his face. “M-My-!”

“A mere sliver of Anima. Soul, you might call it. It will be returned to you once you’ve kept up your end. You’ll be no worse for wear.” Nathanos rose abruptly, all dark armor and deadly grace. “Provided you don’t keep me waiting. Let’s go.”

The young Paladin really didn’t like the thought of leaving even a ‘mere sliver’ of something like that in the jaws of darkness but he didn’t see what he could possibly do about the matter now. Short of attempting to take it back by force. And something told him that fight was one he wouldn’t win.

Beneath the fallen Ranger’s blistering gaze, Darion picked up his sword and clambered to his feet. “You don’t have a home.”

Nathanos snorted. “Just because you don’t see something, Paladin, doesn’t mean it isn’t present.” Summoned by an unvoiced command, a skeletal mount emerged from between the trees. Tossing its horned heavy head and huffing a black haze as it approached. The older man grabbed the rusted chain used for reigns and swung himself up onto its back. Gazing down at him. Imperious and impatient. “Collect your nag. I don’t have endless time.”

Darion fumbled a few minutes with the tied leather around the branch of the tree before he managed to free his horse. Climbing into the saddle and settling atop its back. “Lead on.”

His undead companion showed incredible ease in the saddle, gripping the reins in one hand. Turning his skeletal horse about and prodding it into motion. Haunting bird calls echoed among the dying trees, accompanied by the thud of hooves in rhythmic time against the needle strewn forest floor.

The sun had reached its apex in the sky by the time the forest fell behind them. Another hour passed in which they traveled over open grassland, weaving among the glossy forms of massive carrion worms slithering across the ground, before they reached the crumbling edge of a chasm which bisected the land and Darion couldn’t remember having been there before.

Nathanos made a noise like an agitated cat, red eyes fixed on the bottom of the canyon fifty feet below. “I can fly, but you cannot. Nor can our horses.” He turned his head. Sweeping his eyes first to one of the chasm’s far ends and then to the other. Apparently, the undead saw something more than Darion did because he swung his horse around. “There’s enough of a shelf of land left, between the edge and the mountains down that way, that we’ll be able to get around it. The journey will take us around the back end of Eastwall Tower; be alert for Scourge.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.” Darion grumbled, gripping the reins tighter in hand and nudging his horse into pursuit. The young Paladin watched the ragged track of the lip of the wound in the earth in silence for a long while before he spoke. “What happened here? Do you know?”

Ahead of him, black cloak a cascade of sable rain-scaling down his broad back, Nathanos didn’t turn. “I’ve a fair few guesses.” He grunted. “Blight. Or dark magic. Undeath, not properly contained, has a way of destroying everything it touches; spreading like a plague of rot and ruin. Just like the Legion wanted. They intended to use it to weaken this world. To break it, where they failed to before. 10,000 years ago.”

“You speak as if your people would be different from the Scourge.”

“What wisdom is there in destroying the only planet you have to live on?” Still, he didn’t turn but his words were biting. “My people look to me to keep them safe. Ensuring they don’t misguidedly destroy what might be better worked with is a part of that. Even if I, personally, would rather see such things crushed in the Maw.”

“That’s why you’re planning on allying with Garithos once you’ve dealt with the demon?”

“I never claimed such intent.”

“I’m not the fool that you might think.”

Nathanos snorted. “So long as the Alliance Resistance poses a use to the Forsaken I won’t see them broken beneath us.”

“And when that changes?”

“You and I both know that there’s no hope for permanent peace. Not for us.” His voice was bitter. “Not with the Alliance. Varian Wrynn and his imbecile friends and advisors will never recognize our right to exist. That makes him a threat. And I don’t take well to threats.” They’d reached the far end of the scar in the earth; cutting around the edge of the gash, flush against the shins of the mountainous range separating the ruins of Eastweald from the Forbidding Sea, it was barely wide enough for their mounts to traverse in single file. Wary of its stability, Darion hung back. Nathanos whistled at the hound which had pathed beside him for the duration of their journey, prompting the animal to leap into his lap, and kept forward. “Tarry and I’ll leave you behind, boy!”

Reluctantly, Darion trotted after his dour companion. His living mount much less steady than Nathanos’ undead one. Shying on occasion when it came too close to the edge. Almost unseating him at one point.

“That beast needs better breaking.” Was Nathanos’ greeting once he reached the other side. “Hell of a warhorse it will serve to be if narrow ground is all it takes to make it fling you to your death.” He hadn’t ordered the hound to dismount and balanced the blue beast in his lap. Scratching idly behind its ears with the hand not holding the reins. 

“Idallyus has never given me trouble before.”

All the Fallen Ranger had to say about that, it seemed, was another snort. The skeletal steed he sat astride echoed to sound with one of its own as it tossed its head. “Make ready. The Plaguewood is just ahead of us now.”

Darion shifted his attention from the other man and onto the near horizon instead; the crumbled spire of a decaying stone guard tower, set atop a hill, and the hulking brown mushrooms which boiled up behind it. Spewing clouds of brackish spores into the red hazed sky. “The sun will set soon.” He said. “We should-ack!” Something small and silver had flown at him from the direction of his companion; Darion near about leapt out of his skin, and tumbled from the saddle, in surprise and, in his rather artless flailing, managed to catch what Nathanos had so unceremoniously lobbed at him. A beaten iron flask full, from the weight of it, of something the young Paladin doubted was water. “What’s this?”

“Not poison. Or the Plague. If I wanted you dead, or undead, I wouldn’t have tolerated either your company or your blathering up until now.”

He didn’t doubt the truth in that and cautiously unscrewed the lid. Pouring a finger of the liquid inside out into the cap. A clear, brilliant green it smelled sour and sharp but not in a way which raised the suspicion of danger.

“Are you going to drink that or just play with it while we lose the last light of day?”

Darion shot him a side eye, steeled himself and took the shot. Only to immediately spit it out. “By the Light’s sweet mercy, what the hell is that!”

Nathanos laughed, then. Not the low rumbled he’d heard before but a full throated bark which the hound echoed from his lap. “Skull Shocker is a specialty of the Forsaken. One of two things brewed by my Apothecaries.” What the other was Darion thought that he could guess. “Strongest alcoholic drink on Azeroth. Has to be, given its audience. But it helps with the spores so, if you don’t want to risk Plague mushrooms taking root in your lungs, you’ll take another drink of that and swallow.”

‘Drink that or the Plague Mushrooms will start growing in your lungs’ sounded suspiciously similar to what a parent might say to convince a child to eat their vegetables. Of course, Darion wasn’t about to risk that it might be true and forced down another mouthful of the green alcohol. Capping the flask and shoving it back at him.

“You’ll want to take another drink every five hours or so.” Nathanos made no effort to take the flask back and started forward. “Keep it on you.”

Reluctantly attaching the flask to his belt, Darion hurried after. Watching the huge mushrooms drawing closer and closer as clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain, and darkness consumed the sky. The air grew thick with humidity and foul smelling spores. Nathanos reached up to pull his hood over his head. Eyeing the sky, Darion did the same.

“We must move quickly through the Plaguewood.” Nathanos said. “We’ll reach the town of Terrordale, where Fordring is squatting, in two hours at a gallop. Keep up.” The undead flicked the reins and his steed rocketed forward. The Paladin’s own mount following on its flank.

The towering mushrooms closed in around them. Their sweeping caps threw odd shadows across the path, darker than the surrounding night, as the rain began to fall. Ahead, around a curve in the street, a pearlescent light issued. Darion tensed in the saddle only to relax again when it was revealed to be a lamp rather than a floating banshee.

Onward they ran. The thunder of hooves ricocheting off the trunk-thick stalks. He searched the blighted forest for any signs of Thuzadin or undead but saw nothing and the more he continued to see nothing the more chilled he became. Nathanos, from the way he coiled down atop his mount, seemed to share Darion’s suspicion that they might be barreling into a trap. Yet even when they arrived at the devastated town, nothing happened.

Nathanos’ eyes glowed a bloody crimson in the dark. The hound in his lap snarled and leapt down onto the broken streets of the abandoned settlement. The Fallen Ranger swung down after it and notched an arrow. “The Paladin you’re searching for is around here somewhere. It’s best that he not realize you’ve kept the company of something like me; I’ll hide myself and wait for whatever thinks to stalk us to make its appearance.”

Darion wasn’t given time to protest as, like a shadow burned away by the light of the sun, Nathanos vanished with his hound.

Alone on the ruined street, the young man spent a moment longer staring at the empty air beside him in near disbelief before he unfroze and examined his surroundings. Decaying wood. Boarded up and broken windows. What might have been a boar wandering around among the brush, though it seemed too preoccupied with rooting around to care about him. Satisfied he wasn’t in immediate danger, Darion selected the building which appeared the most habitable and forced the door open with his shoulder. The wood and corroded hinges giving way with a bang that, doubtlessly, had alerted everything within two miles of his location.

He hastily scrambled inside.

The building he’d ended up in seemed to have been a house at one point, though its occupants had long since fled. Whether they’d made it to safety was a question Darion couldn’t answer, and chose not to think about too deeply. Skirting the remnants of a broken table and crossing the room to a back shelf, he scanned the numerous titles left on display.  _ 1001 Herbs for Cooking and Medicine. An Almanac of Alchemy. Do It Yourself Pots and Poltices. 50 Shades of Silver? _

Darion pulled out the last book in question and opened to a page at random. Only to promptly drop it when he realized what Sir Hendigen’s ‘sword work’ was a euphemism for.  _ A steamy romance novel about the Silver Hand is  _ ** _not_ ** _ why I’m here! _ Face burning, he unscrewed the lid on the flask Nathanos had given him and took another swig. More in hopes of forgetting what he’d just read than anything else. Swallowing around a grimace and nearly jumping out of his armor when he turned around and found himself with company.

“From the smell of it, whatever is in that flask would put hair on the chest of an Orc.” Tall, hooded and male but not his dark escort. The voice was wrong. “I wouldn’t advise drinking in a place like this.”

“I have on good authority that this will ‘keep the spores in the air from sprouting in my lungs’, or something else equally ridiculous and no doubt thought up for the sole purpose of frightening the wits out of me.”From the impression he’d gotten of him, that seemed like just the sort of thing Nathanos would find amusing. “You’re Tirion Fordring?”

“And you’re rather well informed.” The man pushed back his hood, then, revealing age greyed hair and a weathered face. “Don’t tell me that you came all this way looking for me.”

“I did.” He said. “You served with my father.”

“Your father?” Tirion squinted at him for a moment before his eyes widened. “By the Light. You’re a Mograine!”

“Darion Mograine.” He said. “And...I’ve come to you because I need help. The Light presented me your name when I prayed for an answer. My brother Renault betrayed my father. Murdered him with his own blade. His soul has become trapped within the Ashbringer. Please, is there any way that I can set him free?  _ Anything _ that I can do?”

Tirion stared at him for a long moment, and then he sighed. “I regret I cannot be of better aid to you, Darion. Your father was a noble man and the fate he’s met, if your words are true, is one that Alexandros does not deserve.” He said. “There’s no guarantee, but an act of great love may be enough to save him.”

“Great love?” he repeated. “But...what does that mean?”

The troubled expression deepened, but before the older Paladin could reply he cut himself off and turned his head. “Do you sense that?”

Instantly alert, cursing himself for allowing his awareness to falter with distraction, Darion hastily extended his senses back across the ruined town. Locating the presence of an incredibly powerful undead a split second before a blast of howling frost sent the wall exploding inwards. Revealing the hulking, armored figure on the other side.

_ “Death Knight!” _ Panic charged his veins and threatening to overwhelm him, Darion drew his blade and back pedaled what small handful of feet the confined space they’d trapped themselves in would allow. Beside him, Tirion had done much the same. The monster’s glowing blue eyes focused on the older Paladin and narrowed but before either of them could move something slammed into the Death Knight from behind. A flash of dark magic lighting up the night and making spots flash before his vision.

The armored Knight stumbled a step forward then turned. Darion only had enough time to register that an arrow was jutting from a chink in his breastplate before another shot hit home with a resonant crash. 

The undead let out a bellowing roar of fury, the runes on his blade flaring vibrantly bright and he charged back into the streets. Tirion not far behind, leaving Darion little choice but to follow.

Nathanos, in all his red eyed glory, stood firm in the face of the Scourge juggernaut bearing down on him. Leaping high at the last possible moment before crashing back to earth in a column of black haze. The Death Knight collapsing to the cobbles with a clang and making no move to get up.

“Opportunity to vent pent up frustrations aside, I have neither the time nor arrows to spar playing around with one of Arthas’ pets.” He sneered as he turned on them. Disregarding Tirion entirely in favor of fixing Darion in a scorching glare. “I’ve business to attend to, Mograine, so if you’re finished interrogating this squatter? Need I remind you that you have a deal to keep?”

“You made a deal with him?” the other man sounded horrified. “Have you lost your  _ mind _ ?”

At this point, in all honesty, the answer to that question was probably ‘yes’. “One does not question which envoys the Light chooses to send.”

“That is no envoy of the Light.”

“But nor am I a part of the Scourge. Or, for the time being, a threat.” Nathanos said. “Though that may soon change, should my patience run any thinner.”

“Thank you.” Darion said to Tirion, beginning to slowly edge away so as not to test the undead too much. “Light be with you.”

“Given your situation, Darion, I think you need the Light’s protection a great deal more than me.”

With any luck, that wouldn’t turn out to be true.


End file.
